


Starlight, Star Bright

by RainFlame



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Angst, F/M, Gen, I just like angst okay, Medical Trauma, Parental Roy Mustang, Sickfic, and trauma in general
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2020-07-23 14:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 52,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20009578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainFlame/pseuds/RainFlame
Summary: Ed knew that what he did that day at Briggs would come back to haunt him, but he wasn't expecting it so soon. Rating just to be safe. Parental Roy. Spoilers for Episode 41.





	1. Chapter One

Roy narrowed his eyes, staring at the silver pocket watch on his desk and not quite able to tear his gaze from it. The light caught and highlighted every scratch and dent, the watch looking like it had been used as a weapon instead of a timepiece. "Come again, Fullmetal?"

Edward Elric stood in front of him, dressed in his trademark red coat and a smirk on his face that didn't quite reach his tired eyes. He looked almost gaunt, with eyes almost sunken like a sick man. The sunlight streaming from the window behind Roy gave him a glowing, almost angelic appearance, a false look of liveliness, but Roy knew better. "You heard me, Mustang. I'm retiring."

"You're what, twelve now? Going to spend the next seventy years playing bridge at the old folks home?"

Ed scoffed. "I'm _twenty_ , old man. And for your information, Al and I have stuff to do. All this military crap is taking up too much time, and I have more important things to—" Ed coughed into his hand. "—do."

" _Little_ cold?" Maybe that was what had him looking so exhausted.

"Who are you calling small, you smug jerk?!" Ed demanded, though not with as much fervor as Roy was expecting.

A knock at the door halted Roy's snide response. It cracked open, a pale toe-headed boy stepping in, golden eyes bright.

Alphonse had improved leaps and bounds in the wake of the Promise Day. He had gone from little more than a quivering, ill sack of bones to a confident, healthy-looking young man in only two years. He was still a little too thin, with cheekbones that looked just a bit too sharp and a bony sort of appearance, but he seemed happy and healthy, adjusting to the return of his body with the determination and will at which he had always approached everything.

Now, he stood tall, dressed smartly in a tweed suit and bowtie, like a respectable business man. He had been teaching alchemy at Central University for a whole year, but now . . .

"Alphonse," Roy greeted with a nod of his head and a smile. "Fullmetal tells me that he's retiring."

Al glanced at his brother, then back at Roy, his own beaming smile dimming just a bit. "That's right, Col—Brigadier General. I turned in my own resignation this morning."

"Please, call me Roy," he said, then frowned. "So, you're both leaving town?"

"That's right," Ed confirmed. "We're heading back east. I'm hoping to get another look at those Xerxian ruins before I kick the bucket."

_"_ _Brother!"_ Al hissed, shooting a glare at them that was a bit too intense for the situation, in Roy's opinion. Curious.

Ed shrugged, but almost looked a bit abashed. It was something only Alphonse could inspire in his brazen older brother. "Anyway, I'm just turning this paperweight in before I head out. We're on the next train." He looked at his brother, then back at Roy. "The cab is out front. Guess this is goodbye."

Something in his voice was too heavy and too final. It rubbed Roy the wrong way. He stood up, the fading sun warming his back. "Kind of sudden. On the overnight to Resembool?"

Ed shrugged again. "It's the last this week, and you know how the storms shut down the trains every other week when you get farther east than Isfara this time of year." Flimsy excuse. It was true that they shut down often, but it was at most, a minor inconvenience requiring an overnight stay in a motel until the rains abated and the railways were safe again. Ed pivoted to the side and coughed in his hand again.

"Planning on studying on the train?"

"I might read a book," Ed agreed.

"Or five," Al added with a smirk.

"Trains get bumpy," Roy pointed out, plucking the watch off his desk by its silver chain. It clanked gently as the watch fell to the end of it's slack, bouncing once before hanging, heavy like the burden it represented. Roy regarded briefly the way two sets of golden eyes followed it as he twirled it around his wrist once and tossed it to Ed. "You might need a paperweight."

Ed caught it in two flesh-and-blood hands, quirking a blond eyebrow. Roy didn't miss the way his too-tired eyes flared just a bit with hope. "Isn't that illegal?"

Roy shrugged. "The military has more important things to do than chase down a pocket watch, Fullmetal."

"Could have fooled me, the way you sit around all day," Ed snarked, but pocketed the timepiece that represented a long, hard struggle and everything the brothers had overcome. It was almost poetic, if Roy were inclined to being poetic.

Alphonse cleared his throat, drawing the room's attention. "We better get going. We'll miss our train." He stepped forward to Roy, smile turning almost wistful as he offered out a hand. "Guess we'll see you later, Sir."

Roy took his hand and couldn't have been more proud that it was now too flesh-and-blood. "It's Roy," he corrected with a smile. "I'll see you around, Alphonse."

Al's hand tightened around his, holding it for another beat before he turned, heading into the outer office.

Ed stepped up to Roy, a smirk on his face that was too shallow to be entirely real. He lifted his hand in a lazy salute. "Later, Colonel Idiot."

"That's 'Brigadier General Idiot' to you, shorty," Roy said, offering his hand.

Ed ground his teeth, glaring at Roy's hand before taking it in a shake that was just a little too tight. It was flesh-and-blood, just like Al's. "I'm not going to miss you at all, Mustang."

Roy smirked. "I won't miss you either, brat."

Again, the lingering, the glower softening into what could have been remorse. Then, his expression closed once again, and with one more firm shake, he released Roy's hand, turning and marching to the door.

A pang of regret smothered the suspicion for a moment.

For the past few years, Roy had grown very fond of the Elric brothers. He had seen their ups and downs, cheering them on when they needed it and reprimanding them—mostly _Ed_ —when the situation warranted, and now faced with their sudden parting, Roy didn't want to see them go.

Roy followed them to his door, leaning on the frame while they walked around the outer office, shaking hands with Fuery and Falman, Alphonse holding his brother back from strangling Havoc at an ill-timed short joke, Breda handing them a few packages of crackers from his desk for the trip, and Hawkeye gave them both an affectionate hug before they headed to the door.

The last glimpse Roy got of the Elric brothers was Ed's wave over his shoulder as he followed Alphonse out, the tail of that obnoxious red coat disappearing around the corner, and then they were gone.

And then that gnawing suspicion returned.

XxXxX

Roy was able to put it out of his mind for a while. Months, actually. Work had him busy, with four new cases cropping up in the span of two months, and as a Brigadier General, the paperwork load had almost doubled from his Colonel days.

Honestly, if he had known that the road to becoming Furher was paved in paperwork, he would have become an alchemy teacher instead.

Weeks turned into months, and with nothing but the occasional letter and phone call from the boys, Roy and his team gradually settled into the quiet mundanity of life without the Elric brothers. Roy looked forward to those calls more than he cared to admit aloud.

But every time he hung up, Roy got that feeling again. He spoke to Ed less and less, while Alphonse's good nature sounded more and more strained. Something wasn't right, but Roy couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Until the last phone call.

_"_ _Roy,"_ Alphonse's tiny voice murmured through the phone. All of his typical good cheer was absent, stripped away to bare exhaustion.

"Alphonse," Roy greeted carefully, taken aback. This was completely out of character. "What happened?"

Silence, then, _"I . . . I think I need some help, Roy,"_ he admitted.

Roy leaned farther back in his chair, cradling the earpiece between his ear and shoulder as he put down his pen and closed the file before him. "Help?" he prompted.

_"_ _It's Ed. I don't know what to do anymore . . . I don't know who else to ask, I can't help him, and it just keeps getting worse—"_

"Alphonse," Roy interrupted, effectively halting the young man's rambling. "In order for me to help you, you have to tell me what's going on."

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Then, Alphonse took a ragged breath.

_"_ _He's dying."_


	2. Chapter Two

_AN: Major, major spoilers for FMA Brotherhood episode 41. Super major. Like, the episode is practically summarized. Carry on._

* * *

Roy stood at the door to the small home, fist raised to knock but frozen midair. His hand felt like lead, heavy and uncooperative as it hovered just inches above the wood, but he couldn't force it down.

What was wrong with him? It wasn't as if Roy were a stranger to sickness or death. He'd seen it a million times, and would probably see it a million more.

But that wasn't why he was afraid to knock.

He was afraid to knock because this time, Ed was the sick one.

Ed was the dying one.

And Roy wasn't sure if he could face it.

Roy's eyes fell to the small suitcase by his side. He was here because Al had asked him to come. Roy was here because Alphonse was exhausted and scared and didn't know who else to call.

Drawing a deep breath through his nose, Roy forced it out in a tight exhale and drew his gaze back to the door, letting his hand fall heavy against the rough wood twice.

It took a few long minutes for the door to open.

Alphonse stood on the other side, looking tired and pale; like a man at the end of his rope. He regarded Roy with red-rimmed golden eyes so much like his brother, yet so different. They had a raw quality to them now that Roy didn't remember from the last time he saw them six months earlier. Dried blood stained his shirt in several places, the white fabric turned a rusted maroon in puddles and flecks and smears. Roy knew it wasn't Al's.

The young man forced a watery smile. "Hey."

Roy nodded, giving a small smile in turn. "Hey, Alphonse."

Al stepped back, inviting him in with a gesture. Roy picked up his bag and entered, nostrils immediately flaring at the acrid scent of sickness in the air combining with alcohol and bleach. Everything looked recently cleaned, but the smell still hung in the air like a shroud, a morbid promise of what was coming.

Roy didn't want to think about it.

He turned back to Alphonse, mouth suddenly dry. He swallowed thickly. "Does he know?"

Alphonse shut the door and shook his head, looking like a man beaten. "No. He asked me not to tell anyone."

"But you called me." Roy had meant it as a question, but it came out as more of a statement.

Alphonse offered a weak smile. "Yeah. I figured he wouldn't mind so much if it were you. I mean . . . he'll still be mad, but not as mad as he would be if it were anyone else, you know?"

Roy didn't really know. But he let it pass without comment. "Does Winry know?"

The question reinforced Al's smile. "She knows the basics, but Ed won't let her stick around the house. You know Brother. He's proud to a fault. Doesn't want her to see him like this." The faint amusement in his voice drifted and sobered. "I can't blame him, though. I was the same way after the Promised Day. It's hard to go from something near invincible to a bag of bones."

A thick, wet coughing fit started behind one of the bedroom doors, grating and painful. Roy and Alphonse both stared, Roy wincing in sympathy. It sounded like it hurt plenty.

"Has the doctor been by today?" he finally asked.

"He came by this morning. He . . . well, he didn't get a good look, because Ed got mad early on and told him to leave, but the doctor thinks he sounds worse."

It was too much information to deal with in such a short time, and Roy didn't even have the full picture yet.

Roy turned away, taking a closer look at the house, looking for a distraction.

It was a small home, but the main room was spacious enough, with two worn, mismatched couches and a overstuffed chair gathered around a coffee table piled high with books and notes and papers overflowing and spilling on the rug underneath. Directly above his head was a narrow set of stairs leading up to a small loft, complete with cramped bookcases, a messy desk and arm chair.

The back wall was nothing but windows, opening up to a back garden, and beyond that, rolling hills of Resembool countryside and the southern sky as far as the eye could see, the early afternoon sun beating down on green grass and wildflowers. It was one of those scenes that Roy would have hated to miss out on after being blind just a couple of years ago.

It was a beautiful scene, compared to the hustle and bustle of the city. Nice and quiet and peaceful.

Roy didn't want to acknowledge the small, cynical voice in the back of his mind that whispered it was a beautiful place to die.

"Would you like some coffee?" Al asked, jarring Roy from his dark thoughts. "Ed should be out any minute. He was just changing his shirt."

"Coffee would be great," Roy said with a smile that felt a little forced, even to himself.

"Go ahead and have a seat," Al said, gesturing to the chair. "I'll go put a pot on." He disappeared around the corner into the kitchen.

Roy stood there for a while, listening to the dull slam of a cabinet door, the clank of a pot and the hiss of running water while Ed coughed up a lung in his bedroom. It was all so mundane, yet all too surreal, to be standing in the Elric's house with Ed dying in the next room while Alphonse made coffee in the kitchen. It was a contradiction that was just a bit difficult to cope with at the moment, in the wake of the news.

The rich smell of coffee finally jarred him from his musings enough to walk over to the chair, but no sooner did he sit himself down when the bedroom door creaked open and Ed hobbled right past him.

Ed looked . . . sick. That was the best the Roy could describe him. He was a ghost of what he had been six months earlier, standing in his office with that stupid red coat and a smirk on his tired face.

Now, Ed walked with a crutch under one arm, favoring his automail leg. He was thin— _so_ thin— like a prisoner of war, starved and wasting. He was dressed in a simple pair of trousers and a white shirt, mismatched feet bare on the hardwood floor. His long golden hair was down, cascading down his shoulders almost to the middle of his back like he hadn't gotten it cut since Roy had last seen it. His skin had a feverish look to it, too pale except for the flush in his cheeks.

"Al?" he called, voice scratchy and weak. He stopped just past Roy, pivoting on the crutch to look out the window, almost seeming out of breath. It was only a matter of seconds before Ed noticed him.

"Yeah?" Al called back.

"Hey, Al," he began, head slowly turning as he ran a hand through his bangs, "where did I leave that stupid—"

Ed's eyes locked with Roy's for one slow second, hazy and uncomprehending.

Then the blank surprise slowly melded into complete fury.

 _"ALPHONSE ELRIC!"_ he bellowed, scratchiness gone now.

Roy could hear a resigned sigh from the kitchen. "Yes, Brother?"

_"Get in here!"_

Alphonse appeared around the corner, two steaming yellow cups in his hand and innocence in his eyes. "Yes?" he asked.

Ed glared at his little brother. "What is _he_ doing here?!" he demanded, pointing an accusing finger at Roy and panting at the exertion. It had probably been a while since he'd yelled at anyone. Then again, it was Ed. Roy wasn't sure if he'd ever gone a day in his life without shouting about something.

Alphonse gave his brother a bland look. "Looks like he's sitting in your chair."

"Don't you get cute with me, Alphonse. What part about _'leave them out of this,'_ did you not get?!"

Alphonse ignored him, walking past him to offer Roy a cup. "One sugar, no cream?"

Roy blinked. "You remember?"

 _"Forget_ the coffee!" Ed snapped. "We don't need or want your help. Thanks for stopping by, and don't let the door hit you on the way out."

"Brother, I asked him to come," Al said cooly, regarding Edward as if he were an over-excited toddler instead of his sick big brother.

"So I gathered, Al," he said, voice mockingly calm. "I asked _why."_

"After last night . . . I need some help."

Ed opened his mouth to deliver a heated reply, but it seemed that Al's words finally registered. His mouth slammed shut, a frown closing his expression off completely. He looked at Roy, then at Alphonse, then back to Roy. Then he hobbled past them, crutch clicking on the floor as the young man snagged a book off of the table, sending an avalanche of papers to the floor. He stalked out the back door and slammed it shut behind him.

That went well.

Alphonse sighed, taking his own coffee and sitting at the end of a sofa. "He's just angry because he doesn't feel well. Give him some time. It's usually worse in the mornings. And night."

"It's almost afternoon," Roy pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I said usually," Al said with a bitter sort of smile.

"What's wrong with him?" Roy asked quietly. Alphonse had been vague on the phone, apparently afraid that Ed was going to walk in at any moment and overhear their conversation. All Roy knew was that Ed was sick—fatally so— and that Al hoped there might be a way to fix it.

Alphonse sipped his coffee, eyes glued to the back window. Edward was kneeling down beside a flowerbed, reaching in and removing a thin, grassy weed. Roy never pegged him as the gardening type. "He wouldn't tell me for a long time. I just noticed that he wasn't feeling well. He woke up sick more mornings than not, had some vertigo a few times a week, had fever almost every morning and night. He had a cough he couldn't shake. I finally dragged him to the doctor, but they couldn't find anything wrong. The doctor sent him back with some anti-nausea medication and codeine and said to call if anything changed. I couldn't get him to go back to the doctor, even though he didn't improve.

"Then he started coughing up blood. I think that scared him a little. He didn't pitch a fit when I took him to the hospital. They ran some tests, but they could only tell us that the he had unusual scarring in his lower left lung, diaphragm, stomach and large intestines , but they couldn't find a cause. I took him to three more doctors. Same story.

"Then he finally told me what happened up in Briggs." His eyes slid to Roy, almost accusing. "Did you know?"

Roy frowned. "Know what?"

Some of the tension melted from his jaw; apparently that had appeased him. "He wouldn't tell me the specifics. He only said that In his fight with Kimblee, he fell down a mine shaft and impaled himself on a metal beam." He said it with a detachment that came from dealing with too much. "He had Darius and Heinkel remove it and used some of his life-force to stop the bleeding and patch up his insides."

Roy felt the blood drain from his face.

How had he not known? Why didn't Edward ever tell him? Why didn't he notice?

A hundred other questions buzzed through his head, but Roy couldn't focus on any of them. He felt like there was a stone in his stomach, heavy and cold.

By all accounts, Edward should have been dead in that mine shaft.

And now, years later, it was finally killing him.

"Are . . . are you sure?" Roy asked, voice weak.

Alphonse's expression remained impassive, but Roy saw the turmoil in his golden eyes. The same turmoil he'd heard in the young man's voice over the phone just last night. "Ed says that it makes sense for his body to start unravelling at it's weakest points. All the internal damage and problems he's having . . . it all lines up with the scars." He looked away, mouth tightening. "I never noticed."

The short sentence had enough guilt and self-loathing in it to destroy someone. Roy had seen it before in combat, when misplaced guilt caused a soldier to assume responsibility for a comrade's death. It was devastating and consuming and Roy hated hearing it from Alphonse.

"It's not your fault."

Al looked at him as if just remembering he was there at all. "Hmph," he agreed without agreeing at all, eyes traveling once again to his older brother. Ed now sat in a wooden rocking chair, crutches propped against the window, one hand supporting a book and the other resting on something. Was that a cat in his lap? "At any rate, it's getting worse. The scarring is spreading, causing more complications. We have Resembool's doctor consulting with several big shots in Central and East City. Doctor Samuel Fawn. He's a good man. Smart. Just . . . limited."

"Have you considered moving to East City, or back to Central? The doctors and facilities are much more advanced—"

"Brother won't." Al frowned a bit in thought, but didn't share why. Roy decided not to press it, for now.

"Have you tried Alchehestry?"

"Twice a day. It keeps him on his feet and keeps the hemoptysis down to a minimum. He wouldn't be up and moving without it, I think." He sipped his coffee, his other hand absently rubbing over a rust colored stain on his shirt. "But it's not a cure. It only helps with the symptoms. I consulted with Mei a couple of months ago, but she doesn't know anything to help. She's looking, though." He rubbed his tired eyes then gestured to the cluttered coffee table. "We all are."

"What can I do to help?"

He raised his eyes to meet his, a weak smile pulling on his lips. "I need another set of eyes on our research and him. Last night was . . . rough." The smile had faded like mist in the sun by that point.

Roy frowned, prompting him to elaborate with a gesture.

"He . . . well, he started vomiting up blood. We couldn't get him to stop for the longest time. I've been so careful with his diet, I don't know what happened." Al scrubbed at his face again, pulling hard enough that his lower eyelids slid away from his eyes for a few moments, giving him the appearance of a tired basset hound. "It . . . it was bad. Alchehestry helped calm the bleeding down, but he still just kept vomiting. The doctor couldn't tell us why this morning. And Ed . . . he's always starving, but he could hardly keep anything down last night. I guess it all kind of shook me up," he said, almost apologetically. "That's when I called you."

Roy was trying to match the Ed that Alphonse described from last night with the irritable but alert Ed from this morning and came up short.

"I'm here to help," Roy promised. "Hawkeye has everything in Central taken care of for a few weeks, at any rate."

Al nodded. "Well, I'm sure you're tired from the trip. The overnight train isn't fun. Why don't you go visit with Ed for a bit? Winry will be by later with dinner and I'll have some research for you to look over."

Roy would admit that he was feeling exhausted, overwhelmed and helpless, but he was willing to bet Alphonse was doubly so.

Regardless, he had some things he wanted to discuss with Ed. He nodded, standing with his coffee and heading to the back porch.

XxXxX

Ed had to admit, he really did like this house. It wasn't like Granny Pinako's place, or even the home where they had grown up; both were saturated in memories, good and bad, and had an eternal sense of "home" about them. This place had a certain charm about it, though.

Ever since his illness had dug its claws in and his retirement became inevitable, Alphonse had been eyeing this small house in the Resembool country. It had belonged to the late railroad foreman and his wife and Alphonse was eager to buy it, certain that the isolation, views and peace would help Ed heal. The fact that it was down the road from the Rockbells didn't hurt either.

It wasn't fancy; there were three bedrooms, a small kitchen and a nice living room. The tiny loft overlooking the living room and the wall of windows, was Ed's favorite spot.

This was a close second.

Spring was slowly melting into summer, the meadows green and lush and insects buzzing and fluttering through the blades. A small garden trailed around the house, flowerbeds flooded with flowers of every shape and color growing in bright bursts against shades of green, mounding and sprawling and spilling over. Ed could sit in this rocker and almost forget about everything for a while.

He could even almost manage to convince himself that Brigadier General Roy Mustang wasn't actually sitting in his living room.

"Fullmetal."

Ed groaned, opening his eyes to glare at the general. He never even heard the door open. "I could have sworn I asked you to get out of my house."

"I'm out of your house now," Mustang pointed out with that arrogant smile only he could summon, taking a sip from his mug before sitting in the wooden rocking chair beside Ed. He looked very domestic, with his bright yellow coffee mug, casual slacks and dark shirt, raven hair in disarray. Not very general-like at all.

If Ed had possessed the energy, he would have gotten up and left. As it was, he was left to glare at Mustang's smug face for the time being. "Is there a reason you're out here, ruining my peace and quiet?"

Mustang shrugged with a shallow smirk. "Call it comeuppance for the past decade."

"Fine. And then we'll call me accidentally setting your suitcase on fire 'comeuppance' for annoying me." Ed crossed his flesh leg over the automail one and repositioned the book in his lap.

"Didn't I see a cat out here with you?" Mustang asked conversationally. It was weird. Like he was avoiding something, and Mustang wasn't one to dance around a topic.

"I'm sure you're not surprised to learn that Alphonse has a cat."

"No, but I'm surprised to learn he has just one."

Ed actually smirked at that. "It wasn't for lack of trying, but I told him one is the limit. You must have scared her off."

Mustang looked around. "What's her name?"

"Cat."

Mustang's dark eyes slid to meet his, eyebrows arching in an incredulous manner. "Honestly, Fullmetal?"

"Hey, we drew names out of a hat. 'Cat' won."

"Let me guess who suggested that particular moniker."

"Mustang, are you here to criticize me on my creativity?"

"No. I'm here to find out what happened at Briggs and why you never told me." He was finally able to spit it out, but there was something in the older man's voice that Ed couldn't quite identify. It had taken on a cold, brittle, almost possessive tone that made Ed just a bit defensive.

Where did that idiot get off thinking Ed owed him an explanation?

"We are very much _not_ discussing this," Ed growled, flipping a page in his book and trying to focus on the words before him.

Though it was difficult to concentrate when Mustang was just _staring_ at him like that.

"Edward," Mustang prompted, his voice demanding in the way it had when he wanted to know just why Ed had leveled an entire city block to arrest one criminal.

Ed flattened his book with a stiff hand. _"Why?_ Just what were _you_ going to do about it?!"

This time, Mustang bristled, his careful, holier-than-thou tone breaking just a bit to show a flash of real anger. "I was your commanding officer. I had every right to know."

Ed's flaring temper increased his heart rate, and naturally, his respiration. It was getting to be a common problem, the scarring in his lungs spreading, tearing and bleeding, easily irritated and difficult to control. He coughed in his hand as delicately as possible, trying to reign it in before it became a fit, glare never leaving Mustang's stern gaze. "Mustang, some things just aren't any of your business. Me getting impaled is one of them."

"Edward, if we had known sooner—"

"If you had known sooner, you couldn't have done _anything!"_ Ed snapped, his lungs spasming once more in an involuntary cough that hurt more than last time, like hot coals bouncing in his chest. "You were knee deep in an impending coup, there were homunculi everywhere, the Promised Day hit soon after, and Al—" Another cough stopped him—that one _hurt_. "I had to get Al's body back. After all of that, what was done was done."

"You don't know that," Mustang insisted.

Ed could feel his blood start to boil. As if he hadn't spent the past few months looking at this from every possible angle. As if he didn't examine then reexamine what he had done, the damage to his body, and if there had been or still might be a way to reverse it.

"Well, don't you just have an answer for everything?" Ed sneered.

Mustang let out an exasperated huff, putting his elbows on his knees and running a hand through his messy hair even as a gust of air tousled it, black locks quivering in the breeze. "I forgot what a pain in the neck you are, Fullmetal. And it's only been a few months. Tell me what's going on."

"Fine! I'll tell you what happened and you tell me what I could have done differently after the fact, and then you can get off my back!"

Ed breathed for a minute, trying to compose himself enough to dodge a full-scale coughing fit. His left lung burned from the exertion as it was. He hadn't done much yelling recently. Then again, Mustang hadn't been around recently. No one rubbed him the wrong way quite like Mustang could.

Alphonse had shared a theory about that only a few weeks ago. Al told him that Ed and Mustang were at each other's throats so much because they were so alike. Ed told him what he could do with his theory.

The silence stretched enough that Mustang noticed and looked at him with sharp, analyzing eyes.

Ed glared and took another shallow breath. "You know all about Kimblee and Winry and how Miles wanted to shoot the dirtbag, but I was just going to . . . incapacitate him."

"Yes. The part you didn't actually leave out of your report."

"Are you going to shut up and let me finish?" Ed snapped, then coughed. It took a long few minutes for him to stifle that one, his left side burning with every forced exhalation. He finally pulled his hand away from his mouth, wiping away a few small droplets of blood. Ouch.

He shot a furtive glance at Mustang, but the old man had already noticed, dark eyes softening into something much less annoyed and a lot more annoy _ing_. He actually looked worried.

And this was why Ed didn't want him or anybody else here. He couldn't stand being looked at like some kind of invalid, like a withering flower in a vase.

"What, never seen blood before?" Ed pulled a bloody handkerchief from his pocket, wiping bright red smears to join the dark red smears from yesterday. "Don't go wimping out on me, Mustang." He pocketed it again, not out of consideration for Mustang, but because he himself hated looking at it.

Mustang looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Sorry. I didn't mean to stare."

"Then don't. It's just a little blood." Ed would never admit to anyone the way the sight of it sent a thrill of panic down his own spine. There was something so fatalistic about coughing up blood, an uncomfortable foreshadowing of what was heading his way.

"Anyway," he began again, shooting a warning glance Mustang's way. "Kimblee saw it coming. So I had to do something. Well, the man fought dirty. He had _two_ Philosopher's Stones. I fell down a mine shaft and got impaled." He pointed to his torso to illustrate with shaking hands. Another, less intense cough slowed him for a moment, but he continued. "Entered through the front, out the back. It punched through two ribs, my left lung, diaphragm, then nicked my stomach, large intestines and vena cava. The stupid pole was the only thing that kept me from bleeding out then and there. Darius and Heinkle removed the pole, and I clapped my hands and traded my lifespan for keeping my insides together. No, I didn't know how much it took, but I'm sure I'm about to find out."

 _"Fullmetal,"_ Mustang scolded.

Ed glared. "No, Mustang. You don't get to come here, invade my home, then get all offended when I tell it like it is. You wanted to hear it, so I'm going to tell it, and I'm not going to sugarcoat it for your delicate sensibilities."

Mustang opened his mouth, then shut it, eyes turning unreadable. He sat back in his chair and gave a small nod for Ed to continue.

"You interrupt me again, I'm going to get Al to transmute your feet to your head. Anyway, I'm still doing the research on this, but it's going to go a little something like this: The scar tissue inside is slowly spreading, so it will basically get to a point where it's going to interfere with function. There are a handful of likely complications from it that could kill me.

"Firstly, it's already weakened my left lung, tearing and causing this stupid bleeding, but it'll get worse and pneumonia is starting to be an irritating concern.

"Secondly, the way the scaring is spreading, there is a high likelihood that my vena cava will split or burst, and I'll bleed out within seconds.

"Then, my body isn't absorbing nutrients like it should, so starvation could eventually be a concern, but it's more likely that the scarring will form a blockage in my intestines before that, creating a case of gangrene that will kill me relatively fast.

"Those are the top three ways I'm probably going to go, anyway. There are more, but it just gets creative after that point. I think I'm holding out for my vein bursting. Pneumonia and gangrene sound completely disgusting."

Ed became aware that he was rambling, words a delicate balance between detached and mildly hysteric.

Over the past months, Ed had been holding out hope that they would find something. He and Alphonse were geniuses, after all. They had been researching nonstop, pouring over textbooks and journals and notes on alchehestry and healing alchemy and anything they could get their hands on to reverse this terrible process, but all the while, that little bit of hope Ed held on to had started to turn into doubt. A cynical voice in the back of his head had started to warn him that this was all well and good, but he'd better start preparing himself for the more likely outcome.

He was far from prepared, though. He wasn't ready to address this, not today. He didn't want Mustang here, making him face and question everything up to this point, with his pity and his patronization, as if Ed had any other choice. As if Ed had any other options.

He was running out of time, and he didn't want to waste what precious little he had considering the possibilities.

"Edward."

Ed stared at Mustang, because it was so rare for him to use his full first name that it demanded his attention.

Mustang was staring at him again, the pity gone and replaced by something Ed couldn't quite name. Resolve? Satisfaction? "Thank you. For telling me."

Ed dropped his jaw in an exaggerated gape. "You hear that?"

Mustang blinked, listening for a moment. "Hear what?"

"That. It's the sound of Hell freezing over. Did you just thank me?"

The general rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, Ed. I've thanked you plenty."

"Name one instance."

Mustang thought. Hard, by the way his eyebrows steadily lowered. "I don't—wait, I thanked you when you returned from Kissel that one time without incurring more than a thousand cenz of property damage."

"Hey, I only did what had to be done!" He swallowed another cough.

"You guys fighting already?"

Both of them jumped a mile, the shock sending Ed into a hacking fit. He tasted blood.

"I'm sorry!" Al said, or at least, Ed thought so. It was hard to hear through all the bloody exhalations and gasps. His lungs were on fire. Al rubbed his back in panicked, jerky motions. "I'm sorry, Brother! I didn't mean to sneak up on you, I'm so sorry!"

Ed took a few rasping breaths, turning to glare at his worrying little brother with a few choked gasps. "Okay, okay, back off," he wheezed. "A little warning, Al?"

"I'm sorry, you know the backdoor is really quiet!"

"As everyone . . . keeps reminding me," he hissed, sending Mustang a pointed glare as he once again wiped blood away from his lips with his handkerchief.

"I don't know what you're implying," Mustang said, voice casual, but eyes strained, like he'd been half a second from joining Al in hovering over him.

The last thing Ed needed was _two_ mother hens.

"Okay, no more excitement," Alphonse said definitively. "I've been watching you yell and cough for the past ten minutes."

"So, you're kicking him out?" Ed asked with an aggressive point at Mustang.

"No, I'm telling you both to knock it off," Al responded, glaring at Ed, then sending a warning look over to Mustang.

Ed stuck his tongue out at the older man from behind Al's back.

Mustang's eyes widened, then narrowed in incredulity. "How old _are_ you, Fullmetal?"

Al turned back, but Ed had already resumed his angelic countenance. "I don't know what you're implying," he mocked with a smug grin he couldn't quite contain.

He could have sworn he saw Mustang fighting his own smile, but he could have been wrong.

Alphonse glanced between the two of them suspiciously before turning back to Ed with crossed arms. "Okay, Brother. It's time for lunch, your meds, then you need to rest."

He almost felt his cheeks tinge in embarrassment, side-eying Mustang with a ducked head. He did _not_ want that smirking jerk general watching him take meds and being put down for a nap like he was some mentally touched octogenarian. "I'm busy, Alphonse," Ed said, gesturing to his book. "If _some people_ will leave me be."

"Brother, the doctor said you need to take your meds regularly, and you have to eat," Al scolded. "Do you want to come in, or do you want me to bring them out here?"

There was absolutely no way he was going to let Alphonse bring him his medication in front of Mustang, much less food. "I can get it, Al."

"The doctor said you need to rest as much as possible . . ." Alphonse said, hinting at his preferred option.

"Alphonse, if you don't stop quoting that man, I'm going to do to you what I did to him," Ed promised.

"Brother, unlike the doctor, you can threaten me all you want, but I'm not going anywhere."

Ed rolled his eyes, pulling his crutch toward himself and getting unsteadily to his feet. He felt Al and Mustang watching, ready to jump in if it looked like he needed it, which was plain insulting. He could get around just fine, even without the crutch. "This would be a lot easier if you weren't so _stubborn_ , Al."

"I believe the appropriate idiom here is 'the pot calling the kettle black,' isn't it?"

Mustang choked.

Both Elrics turned to glare at him. "Something funny?" Ed demanded.

The general's stoic face twitched with a barely smothered grin. "Nothing."

"I think he's laughing at us," Ed pointed out.

"I think he'll stop when he realizes we know where he's sleeping tonight."

That cleared up any mirth in Mustang's eyes. He looked at Alphonse with a bit of incredulity. "I always thought that Fullmetal was the evil one, but you are completely demonic."

Ed's baby brother smiled innocently. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I told you before," Ed said. "Alphonse is more fiendish than I'll ever be."

"Brother, sit down! I'll get the meds, you rest." Alphonse snagged Ed by the elbow, and pushed. It was either sit or fall, so Ed sat, albeit without much grace.

"Al!" he groused, but Al ignored him, turning around and heading back in the house.

Ed sighed irritably and fixed Mustang with a glare. "See? Fiendish."

Mustang smiled, rocking lazily in his chair. "I think Alphonse is doing an excellent job taking care of you. Finally paying you back after the way you mothered him all these years?"

"I never mothered anybody!" Ed exclaimed indignantly, pleased when he didn't feel the stirrings of a cough and could continue to shout at his least favorite human being on the planet.

"Really? What about every single time Alphonse got his armor wet?"

"That was different. If he didn't dry it, it would rust."

"Or when he walked back to the dorms without you for the first three years."

"He could have gotten lost!"

"Or maybe when—"

"Okay, that's enough," Ed hissed. "Whatever, he's treating me like an invalid." Alphonse appeared at his side, and he only jumped a little. "Al! Stop _doing_ that!" Ed groused.

Al ignored him. "Brother, you only have one functional leg," he pointed out, ignoring Ed's outburst and setting a juice glass of multicolored pills on the side table with a cup of water. "It's no problem for me to bring you things."

"They both function just fine!" Ed snapped. "Look!" He tossed his crutch to an unprepared Mustang and stood on both legs. The crutch just barely missed the older man's forehead when he caught it, eyes wide in surprise. Pity. "See?" Ed asked in the face of Alphonse's disapproving stare, taking a step on the automail leg that immediately collapsed under him.

He landed in a dusty heap on the wooden deck, both Al and Mustang flying to him, hands pulling at him and voices babbling and running over each other in panic and concern. The impact startled him more than hurt, but his side definitely didn't appreciate the sudden blow. It did upset his breathing, though, and he coughed. Hard. Bright flecks of blood splashed against wood planks like spilled paint before he could breathe.

His illness had reached the point where his body didn't have the tolerance for automail, it seemed. After several weeks of steadily increasing pain, he had finally agreed to let Winry look at it. She saw him almost two weeks ago, and with no small amount of trepidation, told him that his body was starting to reject it. She told him it wasn't uncommon with chronic illness, when the body was so busy dealing with a constant onslaught elsewhere that it just didn't accept even established automail.

So she gave him a crutch and told him that keeping weight off of it would slow the process, but if his condition didn't change, she would have to remove it soon.

The thought of being crippled again terrified him, so he faithfully followed her instructions and used it anytime he was up.

Still . . . Ed had been able to put all of his weight on the leg just a couple of weeks ago, albeit with some pain. Was the port already that far gone?

His eyes wondered to the scarlet blood soaking up dust on the floorboards.

At least he wasn't coughing up a lung. It was the little things.

"Brother, can you stand?!" Alphonse was asking.

Both men stared down at him, and he glared right back. After all, it was easier to be mad than to be humiliated.

"Fine, it's harder that it looks. Whatever," Ed sighed. "Just . . . give me a hand up, will you Al?"

He was surprised and a little annoyed to find Mustang's hand in his, hoisting him up like he weighed nothing and pulling him against his side to keep him standing.

It might have been okay with Ed if he died right then and there.

He felt the man's body heat through his thin shirt, a strange sensation against Ed's own flushed skin as he guided him back to his chair and gently helped Ed sit. Ed could feel his own cheeks burning in frustration and shame.

There really wasn't anything more sickening than realizing he wasn't going to ever walk with only his own two legs again, and that this time, not even automail would fix it. That time two weeks ago? That was it.

"I'll go make you lunch," Al said quietly. "Do you want a sandwich?"

Ed made a noncommittal grunting noise and Al disappeared back into the house.

Mustang kept hovering. Ed could feel his dark eyes burning holes in the side of Ed's head. "Is there a problem?" Ed demanded, though he couldn't bring himself to look at Mustang. He was far too ashamed about collapsing in front of the man.

"Ed, there's nothing to be embarrassed about—"

"If you ever so much as breathe a word of that to anyone, I'll smother you in your sleep with your own pillow."

Mustang chuckled half-heartedly before sobering. "Ed, why do you think I'm here?"

"To needlessly torment me?"

Mustang didn't dignify that with a response. "I came because I have nothing but respect for you and your brother and I want to help you in any way I can. We can at least try to get along. For Al's sake."

Ed looked up, searching Mustang's eyes for the lie, but he couldn't find it there. If nothing else, the man almost looked pleading. Ed looked down again. "Fine. I promise not to set fire to your suitcase. For Al's sake." And that was all Mustang was getting.

He could almost hear Mustang smile. "Guess that's all I can ask for."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm currently importing this from my ff.net account, so some A/Ns will be outdated c: ).
> 
> *pulls out hair*
> 
> Ugh, this chapter. This. Chapter.
> 
> But I guess it's okay, I'm just not satisfied with it. Maybe I'll get over it. Maybe. At least it was longer than the previous chapter. I reeeeeeally hope it wasn't rambly or repetitive, though it's been written for well over three weeks and I've read and re-read it and haven't been able to figure out what to do about it.
> 
> So, those of you that follow me on Instagram know I'm in a show. And now it's tech week. Those of you that have done theater know what a nightmare tech week is T_T I am so exhausted. I've been an understudy for one of the characters, so there have been a million extra rehearsals that I'm not used to attending, since I'm typically a chorus member. I guess that means I'm moving up in the world? *shrugs* But the SCENE CHANGES. They are many and heavy and I loathe them.
> 
> We open tomorrow, though, so TECH WEEK IS FINALLY OVER! Which explains why I'm posting after one in the morning. I'd hate to waste all of this exhaustion-induced creativity sleeping :'D
> 
> And then work starts next week. I need a week of therapy in between. Guess art and therapy will suffice ;D
> 
> You'd think I'd journal on some place other than the end of my fan fics, but here we are. I'm going to blame the exhaustion and time. Maybe you're sufficiently entertained. Maybe you're rolling your eyes. Maybe you stopped reading four paragraphs ago.
> 
> To those that have reviewed so far, thank you, you have no idea how much every single one means to me.
> 
> If you have the time, please drop a review, and I'll see you next chapter :)
> 
> God Bless,
> 
> -RainFlame


	3. Chapter Three

"Brother?"

Ed jarred back to the present. His little brother's voice had brought him back from a world of science and knowledge to cold reality. A dozen aches and pains made themselves known, from the movement-induced sting of his automail port, to the dull pain emanating from his lower chest and side with every breath. Not to mention the overall ache his whole body complained with from fever.

"Yeah, Al?" he asked wearily, lifting his hands over his head in a slow, aching stretch.

"Don't you think it's time you went to bed?"

The motion stirred his lungs and he coughed, trying hard to keep it from becoming a fit. This was his favorite shirt, and he was tired of the blood stains. He looked down at Alphonse over the railing of the loft.

It may have been Ed's favorite place in the entire house, but he hated how much trouble it was getting up here.

"I don't need a sitter, Alphonse," Ed groused, but nevertheless grabbed his crutch from its place propped against a shelf and got to his feet, with some trouble.

He glanced down past Alphonse into the living room. Mustang was there, pretending to study a stack of notes Alphonse had given him, but Ed could tell he was listening. That meddling snoop was _always_ listening.

Ed glared at the side of his head for good measure before hobbling to the ladder and making his slow, painful way down. It was a neat trick with a crutch, and it was definitely harder than going up. It left him winded and weak, and he was disgusted with how far his body had fallen in six months. He'd been in his prime, and now a measly ladder had him panting for breath.

Alphonse was still there waiting for him, a cup in his hands. "Here," he said, offering it to him.

Ed took it, grimacing at the colorful cocktail of pills inside. Steroids for the inflammation and automail, painkillers, acetaminophen for the fever. He narrowed his eyes, dipping in a finger and fishing out a small, innocuous-looking blue pill. "Forget it, Alphonse."

Al sighed, accepting the sleeping pill in an open palm. "It wouldn't hurt you to get a good-night's sleep for once."

"I'd rather be conscious when I study. The last time I took that stupid pill, I slept for two days."

With his potentially-limited lifespan, two days was kind of a big deal.

"Doctor Fawn lowered the dose."

"Don't care." Ed dumped the whole cup in his mouth, swallowing them dry. He felt Mustang's eyes on him, but when he turned around, the man was once again nose-deep in a journal. So annoying.

"How do you feel?"

Ed gave a one-armed shrug, avoiding Al's eyes because his little brother could smell truth the way a hound smelled blood. "I feel like a sandwich. Want one?"

Alphonse's eyes narrowed. "Brother, the doctor said—"

"The doctor said don't eat two hours before bed, blah, blah, right. A sandwich never killed anyone," Ed assured him, heading to the kitchen. Alphonse had been shaken from the night before, and if Ed had to admit it, he was too. Al had been micromanaging his diet in order to give his body every opportunity to process food, but something had set Ed off last night, and he didn't realize it was possible to vomit so many times.

He'd lost plenty of weight in the past month, and with that came it's own set of complications. Though Winry had dropped off a casserole earlier that evening, and though it was delicious, the small portion Alphonse had allowed him hadn't lasted and he hoped that a sandwich might make him feel a bit less shaky.

Al let out a weary sigh, leaning on the doorframe behind him while Ed dug out some meat and cheese from the icebox and a jar of mayonnaise and mustard. "So? Want one?" he asked, laying out two slices of bread.

Alphonse stepped up behind him, plucking the mayo from his hand and removing the cheese from the counter, returning them to the icebox. "Sure."

Ed glared, snatching the mustard with an undue amount of force while maintaining the heated eye contact. "Fine." Ed set out another two pieces of bread and set about assembling subpar sandwiches.

"Hey, Roy?" Al called. "Want a sandwich?"

"No thanks," Mustang responded from the living room.

"Good, because I wasn't going to make you one," Ed growled.

Alphonse threw on more lettuce than was necessary and they ate in relative silence.

"Brother?" Al asked after a while.

Ed swallowed his last bite. "Yeah?"

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Ed knew very well what his little brother was asking. He took a long drink of water, considering his options.

He'd always known that what he did in Briggs would come back to haunt him. Almost dying in that mine had been a sobering experience for Ed, and the decision to use his own life-force to heal himself wasn't one he'd made lightly, even if he didn't have time to think about the ramifications. It was do or die, and staring at his little brother in the flesh, Ed wouldn't change it if he could.

But he hated watching Alphonse suffer for him, the same way he had hated watching Al suffer in that suit of armor for his mistakes.

"Honestly, I thought I'd die doing something stupid long before this became an issue," Ed admitted.

Al considered that a moment, his expression tired instead of accusing. "You thought you had more time."

It wasn't really a question, but Ed shrugged in response. A sudden rush of shakiness had him pulling out a chair from the table, sitting heavily to relieve his legs. Guess the sandwich didn't help much.

Alphonse leaned against the counter, regarding him. "Did you find anything?"

Ed grimaced. "I told you I'm looking into blood alchemy, right? If I can restore and improve circulation, I can probably stop the scars from spreading. It's not a cure, per se, but it'd certainly help." He didn't tell Alphonse that it was more than likely a dead end.

Ha. Dead end.

Ed rubbed his forehead tiredly. When had he gotten so morbid?

And when had his headache gotten so bad? Maybe he'd waited too long to take the pain meds? "Find anything on your end?"

Al's gaze had turned discerning and sharp. He didn't miss anything. "Brother—"

"Well?" Ed interrupted.

Alphonse looked away, annoyed that Ed wasn't letting him continue with his own interrogation. "I'm still looking into the soul alchemy angle." Ever since he'd returned to his body, Ed's little brother seemed to have a knack for what he'd called 'soul alchemy.' He was able to temporarily plant a piece of his soul into an object, giving it a life of its own until time or distance severed the link. Ed had found it rather creepy and didn't like Alphonse tampering with his own soul after all it had been through, but Al had assured him he'd suffered no ill effects from the transmutations, but agreed to research it further before making it common practice.

Ed nodded, taking note of the sudden swelling of nausea rising up his esophagus. Maybe that sandwich hadn't been such a great idea. Sweat slowly beaded on his forehead and dampened his shirt.

He was absolutely _not_ ready for a repeat of last night.

"Hey . . . Al? Can you . . . alchehestry . . . please . . ."

At the risk of further upsetting his stomach, Ed didn't dare lift his head. He watched Al's feet as they hurriedly crossed the kitchen, deposited the trash bin under his chin and disappeared. Blood rushed through his ears, rendering anything Al might have said completely unintelligible. He froze and waited, bile rising in his throat and he tried to just breathe.

Then something inside him clenched and seized and he vomited.

Most of it went in the trash, just a red-tinted mess of sandwich and bile. Ed gripped it in cold, white-knuckled hands, shaking as his stomach heaved again and again, each time with a wave of pain slamming against his side like an avalanche from the inside, like something was in there trying to claw its way out.

Yeah, no more sandwiches. Maybe ever.

When his body was expunged of food, all that came up was blood.

Ed remembered watching his teacher vomiting blood. Izumi Curtis' episodes always knocked her for a loop, even as strong as she was, and she would sometimes be bedridden for days. Ed didn't claim to be even half as strong as his teacher, so he wasn't thrilled with his new symptoms. He did not want to waste what little time he had bent over a bucket or stuck in bed.

A hand appeared on his back, another sweeping his hair up and behind his neck. Ed thought it was his little brother for a second.

"Breathe," a deep voice that was definitely _not_ Alphonse murmured. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."

As if Ed wasn't already vomiting. Ugh.

Still, Ed took his advice, drawing cool air through his nose, then gagging and his stomach heaving all over again. More blood.

He saw spots, his vision glittering and dancing. He thought he heard Mustang say more, but the rushing in his ears drowned him out.

Then hands were all over him, flattening him on the table. Alphonse was there, pushing his shirt up, a jar of white paint clattering next to his ear. Ed turned his head, more blood gushing from his mouth, dribbling past his lips and onto the wooden tabletop. He choked on it, coughing as it burned his throat. All he could taste was iron.

Mustang smoothed his sweaty bangs away from his sweaty face, dark eyes concerned and mouth a hard line. Alphonse was saying something, lips moving as his fingers traced the familiar circle over his stomach, cold paint raising gooseflesh in its wake.

Finally, an eternity later, he activated it.

Ed immediately felt his stomach quell. The terrible clawing sensation in his side abated, his stomach's spasms calming and easing into just general nausea. He coughed to clear the burning from his throat, more blood splattering on the tabletop, though Ed didn't know if it was from his lungs or his stomach and supposed that it didn't really matter.

He lay there panting for a moment.

"Fullmetal?" Mustang asked. "You alright?"

Ed breathed one more time before trying to sit up.

A flare of fresh pain and nausea had him flat on his back, right back where he started.

"Don't try to move yet, Brother!" Al said, fussing with his shirt before finally leaning over him. "Just breathe."

Everyone was just so full of helpful advice tonight.

His stomach rolled again, but it was nothing but dry heaves; no more blood or bile left at all. He curled on his side, trying to find a position that was a little easier not to choke in.

Alphonse and Mustang exchanged a look over his head. Mustang pushed a wet rag into Ed's shaky hand. Ed muttered a raspy thanks and dragged his arm across the table to wipe at his mouth. Gross.

More gagging and dry heaves later and Ed was getting tired of the way they were staring at him.

He got one arm under him, but it was too weak and too shaky and too tired to lift his own weight. Mustang put a hand under his back and slowly helped him sit up. The thing no one bothered to tell you about alchehestry was that it completely zapped your strength. The process of prodding cells to regenerate and grow and heal taxed the body. The greater the damage, the greater the toll, and after throwing up his insides for the better part of half an hour, he was too spent to even tell Mustang to keep his hands to himself.

"I'm . . ." Ed gagged again, swallowed and continued. "I'm gonna . . . go to bed now."

He didn't miss the next look the two alchemists exchanged. "Alirght, Brother," Al said, taking one arm while Mustang took the other. Between the two of them, they leveraged him off the table and to his feet, then dragged him to his room.

He was almost grateful that Mustang was there, because dragging himself to his room last night had been just a bit more difficult with only Al to help. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open anyway.

When his head hit the pillow, he might have already been asleep.

XxXxX

Alphonse stuffed his shaking hands into his pockets and leaned against the closed door, feeling sick himself.

Seeing his brother like that . . . pale and thin and _so_ sick . . . he couldn't stand it. It felt like every time Ed was in pain, Al could feel himself breaking just a little bit more, pieces of his soul crumbling away into dust. As much as Al hated to inconvenience Roy, and as much as Ed hated for Roy to see him this way, Roy was necessary for both of their sakes.

At least, that's what Al tried to tell himself. There were, of course, others he could have called. Winry would have stayed in a heartbeat, and he knew that Havoc or anyone else on the team would have dropped everything to be there. Mei had even hinted in her letters that she would come if he called.

But it had to be Roy Mustang for three reasons.

The first being Al knew that behind all of his mortification and his snide remarks, Ed would rather it be Roy Mustang than anyone else. Because who better to understand being left, in Ed's words, a "worthless excuse for an existence," than a man that had also gone from recklessly independent to handicapped?

When Roy Mustang had lost his sight, Al didn't know if it were possible to feel more sorry for another human being. Al might have been a bleeding heart, but to see a proud and ambitious man like Roy reduced to being led around his own home by the hand had been unbearably hard to watch.

And now it was happening to his brother.

But Roy had responded to Ed with a gentle patience, one developed by his time blind. Roy understood. He knew how hard it was to swallow your pride and accept the help.

And Ed knew it, too, whether he admitted it or not.

Secondly, no one could give Edward Elric a kick in the pants quite like Roy could. Alphonse hadn't missed the way Ed was slowing, the fire in his gaze and the fervor that he always brought to the table dimmed. Al knew his brother was still fighting, but he wasn't sure how much of his heart was still in it.

Roy had changed all of that by just showing up. Al hadn't heard his brother shout in weeks. Something so very Ed-like had been missing, and Roy had brought it back within minutes of his arrival.

Thirdly, if there were anyone Alphonse wanted around in a crisis, when he wasn't sure if he could handle it anymore, it was the man that Al had always looked up to since he was just a kid trapped in a suit of armor.

That's why it had to be Roy.

He could feel Roy's eyes on him and he looked up, summoning a smile for the older man. "Well, guess the rest will be good for him."

Roy's expression was scrutinizing, onyx eyes narrowed, but he didn't comment. "I'll go clean up," he offered, starting toward the kitchen.

Al couldn't express how relieved he was to hear that, even if he would turn him down.

After Ed's automail surgery, Ed had needed a lot of help. Between Winry, Granny and himself, they'd spent the better part of his recovery bringing him things, helping him with things, and trying to keep his genius, active mind from going mad with boredom. Between the three of them, and with Al's tireless metal body, it hadn't seemed like a huge burden.

After these past few months, though, Al was drained. He was physically exhausted with fetching things and helping Ed around and keeping the place clean, mentally exhausted with research and tracking his diet and symptoms, and emotionally from watching Ed slowly decline and feeling guilty that he was so tired when Ed was the one sick.

So just Roy volunteering to help clean up was enough to give Al a spark of energy. "No, I've got it," he assured, following Roy to the kitchen.

Roy ignored him, grabbing the towel that Ed had wiped his face with and proceeding to scour bloody liquid from the tabletop.

Al grabbed his own towel from a drawer and a glass bottle of vinegar and started on the floor.

"What's on your mind?" Roy asked after several silent minutes.

Al scrubbed the floor hard, the rubbing of cloth against wood soothing, in a way. "It's just . . . it's hard watching."

Roy nodded and looked back to his work. "I know."

"It . . . it wasn't supposed to be this way," he continued, a bit concerned that the words were proceeding from his mouth faster than his mind could consider them. "Ed wanted to see the world, did you know that? I was going to go to the east, and he was going to head west, and we were going to study and meet people. I'd bought my train tickets the day he started coughing up blood. Ed proposed to Winry, did you know that?"

"He never told me," Roy said, voice soft.

Al dragged a hand down his face, feeling tears he hadn't allowed himself to give into prick his eyes. He blinked them back. "He was going to get married. I bet he'd end up with ten kids. He wanted to publish his theories and help Winry with her automail shop and . . . he's got so much to _do_ , why is this happening?"

Alphonse was only half aware of Roy dropping the rag on the table and pushing a chair aside, finding a clean spot on the floor beside Al and sitting down heavily.

"Why him?" Al asked, voice frail.

"I don't know," Roy answered.

"I . . . I thought after everything . . . he's paid his price, hasn't he? Where's the equivalent exchange?"

Roy crossed his legs and leaned forward. "I don't know."

Al wrung the cloth in his hands, feeling the heat sting his eyes. "Ed doesn't deserve this."

Roy sighed next to him, wrapping an arm around Al and pulling him to rest his head against the older man's shoulder. Al didn't fight it, too tired and numb to do anything anyway.

The past few months had been hard and were just going to get worse. Al didn't know if he had the strength to face it.

"I'm scared," he admitted softly.

Roy sighed. "Me, too."

Al took a long second to ask about something else that was weighing on his mind. "Did you . . . did you read my notes?"

The man beside him stiffened slightly, breath stilling just a bit before he fully regained composure not a second later, but Al already knew what was coming. "I don't think that's going to be a viable option, Alphonse."

"Because the risk of cellular destruction is too great," Al finished numbly.

Roy nodded. "Maybe Ed can see a way around it, but as it is, there is too much energy being pumped into the body. If I understand your alchemy correctly, this would be like alchehestry, but magnified to the point his body might overheat, and the cells would deteriorate and die."

Al knew all this, but he didn't want to hear it. Soul alchemy had been his only viable lead, and without it, he had the sickening feeling that they were out of options. Ed had spent months on his blood theory, but they'd both been banking on Al's. He was terrified to put it in front of Ed and hear Ed confirm what Roy was telling him.

Because that would be the final nail in Ed's coffin.

Al blanched, because he wasn't ready to pick out a coffin.

"Al?"

Al shoved the morbid thought away. It wasn't over until Ed was dead or cured. He couldn't afford to dwell on that kind of thinking.

"I have to . . . I'm going to do a bit more research," he said, getting to his feet. "I'll show you the guest bedroom."

"No," Roy said, getting up a bit slower than Alphonse had. "I think I'll join you. For a while, anyway."

Al offered him a half smile and nodded.

Yeah, it had to be Roy Mustang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just importing from my ff.net account, so don't mind me :'D 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy! Leave a comment if you would, and hopefully I'll see you in the next chapter sooner rather than later.
> 
> God Bless,
> 
> -RainFlame


	4. Chapter Four

_Bang_.

Roy startled awake, sending a landslide of papers to the floor.

Golden eyes glared at him from across the coffee table, crutch smacking against the table leg once more for good measure with another sharp crack.

"Have you two idiots been at this all night?" Ed demanded, turning back around to send a withering look at Alphonse, who was in the process of peeling a loose leaf of paper off his cheek.

Roy stretched, feeling his back ache in protest. Clearly sleeping sprawled across the couch didn't agree with him. His desk at the office was much more comfortable. "Not all night. We fell asleep at some point."

"What time is it?" Alphonse asked, a hint of urgency in his tone.

"Almost noon. I already took my medication, so you can go ahead and curb that particular panic attack," Ed informed.

Alphonse almost looked abashed. "Sorry, Brother, I'll go make you some breakfast—"

"You will _not_ ," Ed snapped, sounding a bit more irritated than Roy felt was warranted. "I don't need a sitter, Al. I already made my own breakfast." On that particular note, Ed pushed past his brother and started his slow limp to the back porch, slamming the door shut behind him.

Roy frowned, watching him through the window as he wavered, even with his crutch to help him balance, and sent a look at Alphonse.

The younger brother stared after Ed, looking a bit hurt and a bit confused. After a moment, he finally sighed and got to his feet, starting the process of organizing and straightening piles of research.

Piles of research that had gotten them nowhere.

Both of them had stayed up well into the night, both trying to apply Al's theory in a practical sense, but both came up short. Roy couldn't make it work, but he wasn't ready to call it quits yet. They just needed . . . _something_. Another angle, another view. They were close.

"I'll go make us something," Alphonse said after a moment, stretching and heading to the kitchen.

Roy sent one more glance out the back window, but Ed was nowhere in sight.

Roy yawned and followed Al, a bit slow and a bit stiff after his sleeping arrangements. He was getting too old to sleep like that.

It was either a bed or a desk from now on.

XxXxX

Ed hobbled down the dirt road, his body already exhausted and he'd only been at it less than half an hour.

Was it just last year that he had been able to sprint from his house to Winry's?

The strain bothered his lungs, making them spasm painfully. Not wanting to encourage a fit, he pulled over to the side under the shade of an old red oak, leaning heavily against the fence as he tried to regulate his respiration.

His gaze wondered out to the surrounding pastures. The afternoon sky was a brilliant blue, stretching out of sight past green and gold hills. Flowers waved in the wind as far as the eye could see, white, blue and yellow specks against a sea of grass. A strong, cool breeze blew in from the north, big puffy clouds on the horizon and the ache in his side promising a storm before the day was through.

Ed would never get tired of this view. It was almost enough to soothe his black mood.

He'd seen Al's research that morning. He'd gotten up early, unable to sleep, and stumbled into the living room to find his brother and former commanding officer dead to the world. Instead of waking them up immediately, curiosity got the better of him. He had to look.

He regretted it.

He saw Al's theory, how it was sound in principle, but impossible in execution. Ed may have lost his ability to use alchemy, but he still had a sound and comprehensive knowledge of it. His encounters with Truth had left him an almost transcendent understanding of it, and he could tell by looking that soul-alchemy was a dead end. He was more disappointed than he thought he'd be.

More than that, he was _angry_.

He wasn't sure who at, or why, but . . . he was.

But he didn't want to think about that now. He wanted to see Winry. Soon, he would be wheelchair bound, or worse, confined to bed, and he would be all but unable to visit this quiet stretch of country road alone. Who knew how many more times he'd be able to walk to Winry's house? He wanted to take advantage while he could.

After a while, his breathing returned to what might pass as normal, and once more he set off.

Ed wasn't sure how long it took him, but when he finally saw the bright yellow house with the green trim, he was relieved. Everything ached, and his coughing had soaked halfway through another handkerchief. The thought of getting off of his feet for a while spurred him onward.

He took the stairs slowly, dragging his automail leg up each step until he managed to get to the deck. His wheezing cued the coughing and he leaned against the railing, trying to rein it in. He didn't want Winry to see him like that.

His watery gaze was drawn to the hill just across the meadow. Charred wood and stone poked from the ground like rotting teeth, gray and ashen and solemn, a monument to Ed's past. Grass and weeds had long-since overtaken the scene, slowly returning the ruins to the earth. Ed hated looking at it. It was a blatant reminder of his own mortality, in a way. If his childhood could burn so easily, then so could his future.

The front door opened, jerking Ed from his morbid musings. Winry stepped out, balancing a potted plant in one arm and a pitcher of water in the other. When she saw Ed, she blinked in surprise. "Edward?!"

Winry was the most beautiful woman Ed had ever seen, with her sky-blue eyes and blonde hair and pale skin from too many hours inside bent over automail, but it wasn't all in her looks. She had a strength to her that Ed found acutely fascinating, and Ed may have been a genius, but Winry could talk circles around him about automail and the human nervous system, and to be perfectly blunt, that was just hot.

Of course, Ed didn't used to think like that. How could he, when she'd practically been a sister to him? But over time, things changed, and she became something more than that.

Something Ed didn't want to lose.

Ed offered a grin. "Hey, Winry. Trying to garden again?"

Winry set her plant and pitcher on the ledge and wrapped her arms around him, lips pressing hard against his. Ed blinked in surprise, but kissed back anyway, certain he tasted like blood while she tasted like summer.

She pulled back after a long second with a glare. "Shut up about my gardening."

"The dead tomatoes speak for themselves."

"Edward Elric, I will push you off this deck right here, right now."

"I'll just take you with me."

"Fine," she said, straightening in mock indignation, her left hand brushing dirt from her coveralls. The light caught on the small silver ring around her fourth finger and Ed marveled once more over how Winry could have said yes to him, even when he was healthy. And now that he wasn't, she still wore it, though they had passed their initial wedding date and had made no plans to reschedule it. "I guess you don't want any of the pie I just made this morning, then?"

"You're a cruel woman, Winry," Ed whined. "What kind?"

"Apple."

"I won't tell Al if you won't."

She laughed, a warm, natural sound. It soothed Ed's previous anger and despair until he almost forgot he was dying at all.

He almost forgot how selfish he was to be here with her like this.

"Why don't you come in?" Winry suggested, taking his hand. "I was about to water some plants, but it might rain."

Ed looked out at the darkening sky. "Good. Better to let nature drown your plants instead of you. Easier that way."

She smacked him on the shoulder with none of her usual temper. She was never rough with him anymore. Oh, she would threaten to take his head off his shoulders with her wrench daily, but she hadn't bludgeoned him with anything in a long time.

Ed had mixed feelings about that, but ignored it for now. "Why are you suddenly so obsessed with gardening, anyway?"

"Gardening is good for the soul," she replied sagely. "You should try it."

Ed rolled his eyes, but didn't mention the way he had recently started weeding out the back flowerbed by his chair when he thought Al wasn't looking. Winry wasn't the only one with hobbies.

Winry led him into the house, shutting the door behind her. The whole place smelled like pie and a full, smoky smell that had always permeated the Rockbell house. Ed let his eyes wonder the familiar entry way, lingering on the photos tacked to the wall. So many memories in this house.

Funny how impending death could make him so nostalgic.

One photo in particular caught his eye. It was him, Al and Winry at Granny Pinako's funeral last year, dressed in black with forced smiles on their faces. Winry's eyes were watery with tears, and both Al's and Ed's might have been a bit red. Looking at it made Ed ill, so he followed Winry to the kitchen.

"Go ahead and have a seat. I'll grab my toolbox."

"I didn't come here for a tune up, I came for pie," Ed said, but pulled out a chair at the dining room table anyway, sitting heavily on the bright yellow cushion. Honestly, he hurt too much not to.

"Let me look first, then I'll get you some pie," Winry called from the next room over.

Was he even going to be able to make the walk home? Admittedly, there were worse things than getting stranded at Winry's for a few hours, but Al and Mustang were bound to notice his absence sooner rather than later. Not that Ed cared—because he was an adult and could go on a walk if he wanted to without telling anyone, thank you very much—but a worried Al was a crazy Al, and Ed wasn't entirely ready to deal with that.

Claws clacked on the wood floor and Den wondered around the corner. She stopped when she saw him, letting out a quiet "whoof," her tail wagging slowly in recognition.

"Hey, mutt," Ed greeted, holding out a hand to the dog. She hobbled up to him, putting her head in his lap to soak up the attention. Den was an old dog now, her days filled with good food and naps in the sunshine. During the past six months or so she'd lost a lot of her hearing and she didn't get around as well as she used to—though Ed could relate.

Winry set the tool box on the oak table, metal scraping against wood. "I've been doing some research."

"Oh?"

"I think I can reduce the weight of this leg even more by removing a lot of the plating. It won't look as pretty, but it'll let you keep it longer."

Ed didn't hesitate. "Do it, then."

"You can't get it wet, though. You'll have to leave your leg outside when you shower."

Ed nodded. "Fine."

She nodded, shooing Den away and gesturing for Ed's leg. Ed propped the metal limb into the empty chair next to her, watching as she dug around in her toolbox before selecting a screwdriver and attacking the metal plate on his foot. Watching her work was as mesmerizing as watching an expert alchemist construct a circle. She had an enthusiasm and grace to her that went beyond definition, and Ed was content to stare and drink in the sight of her doing something she loved.

"Hey, Ed?"

"Hmm?"

"The Summer Festival is in a couple of weeks," she said offhandedly.

Ed frowned. The Summer Festival was one of those holidays observed almost exclusively by small farming towns in the East. It was made up of contests and food and fireworks, anything a decent holiday needed, but Ed hadn't been since his mom was still alive. "Yeah. What about it?"

"Well . . . if you feel like it, we could go? I've been working on my pie recipe. I thought I could enter it this year. You know, just for fun. Maybe you could enter something, too."

Ed rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. Maybe I'll bake a strudel."

 _"_ _Ed,"_ she growled, pleading tone gone.

"But I'd love to go with you."

How far could he possibly decline in two weeks?

She smiled, her eyes lighting up. "Great! It'll be fun, you'll see!"

Ed shrugged, watching her pop off the plate on his foot and setting to work on the shin plate. He didn't want to mention the fact that he hadn't been in public in months. The whole town knew about the Elrics, and they knew very well that Ed had been the famous Fullmetal Alchemist before retiring. What they didn't know was that he was no longer the teenager running through town with a smug grin and a red coat. He was just a dying young man now, too sick to play the part of "Hero of the People."

A soft rumble drew Ed's attention to the window. Clouds were building, slowly rolling and falling over one another as they drew closer. Ed had been right, there would be a storm today. Just what he needed. Al was going to lose his mind when he found out Ed wasn't at home.

Ed sighed. "I need to call Al."

Winry turned a baleful glare at him. "You didn't."

It was Ed's turn to glare. "What?"

"You didn't leave the house without telling Al, did you?"

Ed stiffened. "I'm an adult," he said defensively. "I can do things like that now." Of course, he had been running off without telling anyone for years now, save Alphonse. It had always ticked Mustang off to no end, which never bothered Ed in the slightest.

"If I could reach my wrench, I would cave your head in," she said with an intense amount of eye contact. "Don't you know how much Al worries about you?!"

"That is exactly why I didn't tell him!" Ed said, being very careful not to start coughing. It would ruin the image he was trying to project. "He'd freak out!"

"You are so stubborn!" She had stopped working on his leg in favor of aggressively gesturing at him with her screwdriver, like she might stab him if given enough incentive. "He'll be more worried now that he can't find you!"

"He might not have even noticed I was gone, so just let me call, woman!" With that, his lungs spasmed and all the air inside of them rushed out. He gasped, hand reaching blindly for the bloodied handkerchief in his pocket to cover up what was coming.

Ed coughed hard enough to see spots, awful wet hacking that soon made him feel entirely too hot. His insides felt like he had inhaled acid, burning enough to make him writhe. He cradled his side, applying pressure to the site in a vain attempt to stop the pain. He wasn't aware of Winry pressing something cold to his forehead until he jerked his head up and almost choked on the cloth. He batted it away roughly— _too rough_ , his mind warned—and went back to trying to breath.

Being entirely unable to catch his breath was a terrifying experience, and though the occasion was becoming more and more frequent, it always freaked him out. Ed did not enjoy the sensation of suffocating on his own fluids, and the panic he felt was animalistic in nature. His body wanted to live, and anything standing in the way was a problem.

Winry said something, but he couldn't make it out. He could feel her rubbing circles on his back. It might have felt good under different circumstances.

It seemed like hours later when he finally calmed enough to just breathe, air coming in with rough, ragged gasps in his raw throat. He slowly wiped the blood from his lips with a shaking hand, folding the blood-soaked cloth in an attempt to find a dry spot. There wasn't one.

He glanced up at Winry. She looked back, blue eyes worried. The side of her shirt was flecked with blood and she held her hand to her side in a funny way.

Ed narrowed his eyes, but he wasn't quite able to speak, only speculate.

"Are you okay?" Winry asked.

Ed nodded, careful not to jostle anything too much. Just breathing hurt, and the pain in his side was something special. If he didn't stop losing his cool, he was going to cough up a lung sooner rather than later.

"I'll call Al, okay? You just rest."

Ed didn't have the strength to argue with her and closed his eyes, listening as she picked up the old rotary phone on the counter to dial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Still importing from my ff.net account c: )
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Drop a comment if you have the time, and I'll see you next time!
> 
> God Bless,
> 
> -RainFlame


	5. Chapter Five

"I'm going to kill him," Alphonse announced.

Roy raised an eyebrow as he brushed his boots against the doormat. "That sounds a bit counterproductive, don't you think?" He was annoyed as well—trudging through the fields of Resembool in the rain wasn't his idea of a good time either—but Ed had only been missing a couple of hours and Roy hadn't completely succumbed to panic yet. Clearly, Alphonse had.

"It'll make me feel better," Al snapped, ripping his raincoat from his shoulders and hanging it on a peg by the door. "Ed!" he called into the dark house. It was midafternoon, but the thick clouds had blotted out the sun completely, reducing the house to shadows.

But Ed didn't answer, and an ember of hope Roy didn't know had ignited in his chest smothered and died. "He'll come back," Roy promised. "You said he wonders off sometimes."

"Not for this long and not in weather like this!" Al said, frustration and worry giving his words an edge that was generally uncharacteristic of the younger Elric. He ran his fingers through his wet hair, scattering droplets across the hardwood floor like tiny crystals. "He couldn't get that far, not in his condition."

Roy honestly had no idea why Ed had wondered off. He knew that Ed was as stubborn as he was brilliant, but he couldn't think of a reason for the young man to just walk off on his own like this.

"I'll go to Winry's," Roy said. They had tried to call first, after a quick search of the perimeter when the storm hit and they couldn't find Ed anywhere, but the line was down with the arrival of the fierce wind and lightning.

"He shouldn't be at Winry's. It's too far."

Roy wanted to roll his eyes, but that seemed childish. As if distance and a little pain would stop Ed from doing what he had his mind set on. "I'll check anyway. Wait here, in case he comes back."

Alphonse nodded, but didn't look pleased. "Right."

"Try not to worry too much." Roy pulled up the hood of his coat before ducking back out into the storm.

Despite his own words of wisdom, he found a knot of concern starting to tighten in the pit of his stomach, unable to shake the vision of Ed, face down in a puddle somewhere. What if he had a coughing fit and fell, unable to get up and drowned? What if he was out in the elements too long? A chest cold could kill him at this point.

Closing his eyes and taking a cleansing breathe, he ordered the image from his mind. Alphonse asked him here because he needed help. Roy wouldn't allow himself to succumb to the same panic. Roy needed to keep his head on his shoulders.

Until he found Ed, anyway. Then he would kill him himself, but first things first.

Get to Winry's. Find Ed. Bring him home.

Roy trudged down the muddied path and repeated his new mantra.

XxXxX

Ed watched absently as the rain lashed against the window, backlit by the occasional flicker of lightening at it rushed down the glass in a continuous wave. It pounded on the roof like a thousand tiny fists, and outside, a river of mud was slowly lurching down the road. Walking home was going to be a neat trick.

Winry sat next to him, her body resting against him and her hand entwined in his. He liked the feel of it there, her warm skin between his fingers, palms pressed together. It was selfish of him when he knew he wasn't going to be around that long, but he liked holding her, the weight of her head leaning gently on his chest as they huddled together on the sofa with his arm over her, watching the sky melt. It made him feel like he could still protect something, even if it was just her heart.

_Fine job you're doing, when you're going to just die in a couple of months._

Ed ignored the intrusive thought. He was selfish to a fault, but he wasn't ready to give this up. Not yet.

The engagement ring around her finger glowed softly in the reflected light from the fireplace, and under it, just under the pale skin of her rough, perfect hand, a fresh bruise blossomed. It made Ed feel a little queasy to look at it.

He'd hit her.

Not that he meant it, and he'd apologized profusely for it when he could breathe again, but there it sat, reminding him of why this was a bad idea, and how selfish he was for being here in the first place.

The phone lines had been down before Winry had even gotten the call out. Which meant if he knew what was good for him, he would stand up and walk out the door before Al came in and killed him. Really, this was a bad idea on all fronts.

But . . . he wanted to hold her like this. Just a few more minutes.

He might not even be strong enough to do it the next time he got the chance.

"Ed?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you . . ." she began, then halted. "I know we called off the wedding, but . . . can we still—"

"Winry," he said, emotion thickening his voice. He cleared his throat, leaning his head against hers. They'd had this conversation once before. Clearly, she wasn't done. "You don't want this, Winry." How could she possibly want to marry him? And for what? At most, maybe six months? He probably wasn't even going to see another winter. Why would she possibly want to marry him, knowing that?

Of course, she didn't exactly know everything. He'd done his best to keep the worst of it from her, but she knew he was on borrowed time. She knew enough to know better.

"Don't tell me what I want," she said, but the usual bite that would accompany that statement was gone. "I know what I want, Ed, and I want to marry you."

"Winry, that's ridiculous. You're just signing up to be a widow. You don't need that."

He was suddenly aware of a growing dampness on his chest, but Winry didn't sniffle or show any other signs the conversation was getting to her, aside from the thickness in her voice. "It's my choice, too, isn't it?"

Well, Ed supposed he couldn't argue with that, exactly.

But she couldn't understand the cost and still want this, could she? There would be no Equivalent Exchange here. So they would be husband and wife and he would get to hold her like this—and more—all the time. And then she would get to bury him.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew his death would devastate her and Alphonse. Actually, he kind of hoped they ended up together, after he was gone. Ed knew how weird it sounded, but somehow, it sounded right, too. Alphonse and Winry had always loved each other, and Alphonse had once fought Ed for the right to marry her when they were kids (and won, too). It kind of seemed fitting that they would grow closer through the circumstances, maybe even closer than Ed and Winry were. Grief was a funny thing like that.

Regardless of with whom, Ed didn't want her hanging on to him. He wanted to leave her with as few emotional wounds as possible, so she could move on, have the five kids she always wanted to have, and have a happy life with someone she loved.

Even if it killed him that it wasn't going to be him.

"Winry, it's wrong," he said with a sigh that made him feel like an old man.

"What's wrong about it?" she asked, no heat in the response.

Ed let his hand absently comb through her long blonde hair, brushing it over her shoulder in long strokes. "You're just making this harder on yourself than you have to."

"It's my choice," she said again, this time more firmly, all of the thickness he heard earlier gone. "I'm the one that has to live without you, so it's not about you. Stop being an idiot."

Ed wanted to roll his eyes. "You're the idiot."

"You're just a selfish jerk," she hissed, nestling deeper into his chest. "I can't believe I love you."

"And I love you, so shut up."

"You shut up!"

Movement outside caught Ed's eye. A figure moved through the watery haze, cloaked in black and lurching down the road through the muddy river. Something about the way it moved sparked some sense of recognition in Ed, but it didn't fully register until the hood slipped off and he caught a blurry glimpse of a pale face framed in raven hair.

Ed groaned.

Well, at least it wasn't Al.

Winry sat up, her comforting weight removed from his chest and panic in her eyes. She had mistaken the sound for one of pain, but come to think of it, Mustang was certain a pain in his backside. "What's wrong?!"

"It's that stupid Colonel Mustang," he groused, shifting to sit on the edge of the couch with no small amount of effort and reaching for his crutch. He finally had some time alone with Winry and then _he_ showed up to ruin everything, the way he always did.

"Isn't he a general now?"

"Semantics. The point is, he's a nuisance and I need to go lock the front door."

"Ed," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "How are you this dramatic?"

"I get it from Al."

Winry dragged herself to her feet, stretching her hands over her head and breathing deep, her pale stomach peeking out under her shirt. "This conversation isn't over," she said after a yawn.

"I'll bet," Ed muttered, taking a deep breath before trying to stand up. His insides flared with the movement and he exhaled a hiss.

Winry touched his shoulder. "Don't get up," she ordered sternly, then disappeared into the adjoining entryway.

Ed watched Mustang cross the window and leave his line of sight. He heard the door open, the sounds of rain now unmuffled and beating down on the deck, and finally heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

"If he asks, tell him I'm not here," Ed called.

"Too late," an annoyingly familiar, deep baritone announced. "Thank you, Miss Rockbell." Fabric shuffled, the door shut, then Mustang's stupid voice again, "I see he's in a foul mood."

"Only because you're here," Ed retorted.

Mustang rounded the corner, soaking wet and shivering. Onyx eyes locked on Ed's and Ed could have sworn that he saw the hardness in them softening with relief.

But Ed couldn't fathom why, and pondering it made him uncomfortable, so he glared instead. "What are you doing here, Mustang?"

"I came to make sure you weren't drowning in a ditch, Fullmetal," Mustang replied with a little heat of his own, the hardness returning. "The water is awfully high out there, for someone of your stature."

There was more bite to his words than their usual banter, and somehow, that made Ed angrier than usual. Ed ground his teeth and put forth a great deal of effort in keeping his voice level. A coughing fit would ruin the effect. "Why don't you come over here and let me demonstrate how I can still kill you without alchemy?"

Mustang sighed, like this was not at all how he envisioned spending his day, and the edge to his gaze came back, like he was finished with the banter and regretted engaging in it in the first place. He suddenly looked about ten years older. "Fullmetal, I would like to inform you that Alphonse and I have been out scouring every field in a quarter mile radius of the house to make sure you hadn't keeled over in one. I'm tired, and frankly, not in the mood."

Ed opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out, his own roiling anger leaving him in a rush.

Well, leave it to Mustang to take the wind out of his sails.

Winry cleared her throat. "General," she said carefully. "Would you like some tea?"

Mustang looked at her, the hardness in his eyes softening again just for her. Ed knew for a fact that Winry had never particularly liked Mustang, blaming him mostly for Ed joining the military, but recently, things had changed. She may not have loved him, but she did almost like him, in the wake of Ed's retirement. It seemed that Mustang felt like they had a good enough rapport now. "Thank you, Miss Rockbell, but the rain is clearing off, and Fullmetal has missed his afternoon medication. We should be going now."

Ed could feel his face flushing. Winry did _not_ need to know about his medication, and he would leave when he was well enough ready.

But one look at Mustang's gaze told him that arguing would not get him anywhere he wanted to be, and Mustang was not exactly worried about Ed saving face in front of Winry at the moment.

Winry bit her lip. "General, Ed has put a lot of strain on his leg today—"

"I'll carry him, then."

Ed sputtered. _"No!_ No way in—"

"Fullmetal," Mustang said, with a heavy warning that Ed had learned early on in his military career not to argue with. It was a Mustang that was passed his limit, and not interested in going any further.

Ed glared at him a few moments longer, just so he _knew_ that Ed was not at all pleased with his meddling.

"I will go now, and I will walk myself," he spat, taking a breath before rocking to his feet, crutch held to his chest for support. He had to pause a second to breathe, only coughing twice, before straightening himself up to his full, _very substantial,_ height.

Bad weather had always made his automail ports ache, but ever since he got impaled, it had made that ache, too. Now, with his progressing illness, it made everything ache, and Ed wanted nothing more than to sit back down in the warm couch with a blanket and Winry.

But he doubted Mustang would respond well if Ed asked him to leave, so instead, he took a slow, stiff step forward, then another. He hobbled to Winry, then gave Mustang another glare. "Some privacy, please?"

Mustang looked like he was about to argue, then glanced between Ed and Winry, something unreadable in his eyes. "Make it quick," he said, turning toward the kitchen and disappearing from sight.

Ed glared after him, then turned his gaze to Winry. "I told you to lock the door."

Her smile was uncertain and disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Ed, please don't do this again, okay?"

He blinked at her. "What?"

"Leave without telling anyone. The General sounds like he's been worried sick, and I can only imagine what Al's like."

Ed bit back a retort about it being none of their business.

But to be honest, he was a bit ashamed of himself, after finding out Mustang and Al had both been searching through the storm for him for the past hour, at least. Maybe he had been a little bit selfish . . . he was just so tired of being smothered and treated like some sick old man . . . but maybe he'd taken it a bit far.

So instead of admitting it, Ed grunted. "Fine."

Winry smiled up at him, then looked out the window. "The rain's stopped, but it's still damp outside. Hang on." She turned and ran upstairs.

"I don't have all day!" Ed called after her. "General Impatient over here won't wait forever!"

"I heard that," Mustang growled from the entryway.

Winry returned a moment later with a brown coat Ed vaguely recognized as belonging to her father. She threw the coat around his shoulders, grabbing one arm and shoving it through a sleeve, barely giving him enough time to grab his crutch with the same arm before she grabbed his other. "Hey!" he protested.

"There. That'll keep the dampness out." The sleeves were almost to his fingertips, and the coat went past his knees, much to Ed's chagrin. "I'll come pick this up tomorrow."

Ed was about to complain some more, but then he breathed in her scent, a clear indication that she'd worn the coat plenty. He decided it wouldn't be that big of a deal to borrow the coat for the day. "Fine," he said again.

"So eloquent," she said with a smirk.

"Shut up," he growled, planting a kiss on her lips. He pulled back, but her hand caught his jaw and pulled him in closer, pressing her lips against his, the warmth of her familiar and safe.

After not nearly long enough, she pulled away. "Bye," she smiled.

Ed couldn't quite find it in him to still be grumpy after kissing Winry. "Bye," he grinned. "Okay, hurry up, Mustang!"

The older man reappeared in the entryway, giving Ed a withering look. He didn't say anything, just opened the door and stepped out into the cool, damp air. Ed followed on his crutch, carefully maneuvering to shut the door behind him. He pivoted, almost running into Mustang and his scowl.

"Just what did you think you were doing?"

Ed's surprise was easily washed away beneath a scowl of his own, temper returning. "Out of my way, old man," he huffed, going around him with no small effort. Winry was right; he'd already been walking far too much on his leg today. Not that he'd ever admit it to anyone aloud, much less Mustang, but his leg was hurting plenty. Nothing Ed couldn't stand, but he was not looking forward to the walk home with Mustang watching him.

"Do you have any idea how worried Alphonse has been? Or me, for that matter?" Mustang demanded.

Ed rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right, Mustang."

Ed knew that Mustang cared for them. Why else would he put his career on hold to come out to the boonies and help a crippled ex-soldier and his little brother? But admitting that aloud for Ed made things too real, crossed boundaries that Ed was not ready to cross. Ed liked to keep their relationship "professional," in a sense, and that meant assuring Mustang that he couldn't stand him every chance he got. He expected the same in return, because once Mustang started going soft on him, Ed would know he himself was too far gone.

He didn't want to be pitied. He didn't want to be coddled.

He wanted things to be normal.

"Fullmetal, what you put your brother through is unacceptable."

"Funny, I don't recall asking you." Maybe if he ignored him, he would just go away? Ed had reached the end of the deck, and thus, the end of the easy terrain. With one hand on his crutch and the other on the railing, Ed took the first step a little too fast, trying and failing to keep the wince off of his face when his automail leg made contact. The resulting shock that traveled through his thigh and up his spine had his muscles seizing in response to the unexpected pain. The air left his lungs in a rush, and the following gasp of air was rejected by his lungs.

Again? _Now?!_

He coughed hard, his sore chest heaving and tearing at his side. He leaned over the railing, three coughs in and already sending flecks of blood flying through the air to spatter in the mud below. His lungs would not stop their bloody revolt, heaving and rippling in their desperate attempt to rid his left one of continuously building fluid. His hand blindly pawed at his pocket, finally bringing up his stained handkerchief to help keep some of the blood off of Winry's handrail.

A few moments in and he had all but forgotten Mustang's presence. Being unable to breathe tended to narrow one's perspective on life. Eventually, his oxygen-deprived senses started to get a little spotty, his vision narrowing into a dark tunnel and only the sounds of his gasping and his own blood rushing made it through his ears. He was way too hot in that coat now, but had no strength with which to remove it.

More blood, more coughing. He even vomited twice for good measure, reminding him that he'd left before Al could give him his first alkahestry treatment of the day, and he was about to be due his second.

Which further cemented the fact that maybe it was a bad idea to run off without telling Alphonse.

Well, Ed was the king of poor decisions, after all.

Finally, an eternity later, the fit began to subside. He could breathe, albeit in shallow puffs, getting a small inhale before pushing it back out with a cough-like exhale. His throat was completely raw, and he was thankful for the moisture in the air that provided some relief with each inhalation.

Then he was made aware of the hand on his back.

Then the words, ". . . that's right, just breathe."

Ugh, why was this happening to him? He couldn't even die without Mustang around to annoy him. Besides, Mustang was supposed to be mad at him right now, not coddling him.

If Ed had possessed the energy and had the breath, he would have told Mustang to take a long walk off a short ledge.

As it was, Ed didn't even have the ability to move, the railing completely supporting his weight. He began to have the sinking feeling that he might not be able to make it home under his own power after all.

He became aware of Mustang saying something, but he missed the first half with the ringing in his ears, and the last half didn't make sense, so he closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing until things came back into focus.

"Ed?"

Ed managed a low groan in response, burying his forehead in the crook of his arm when the world suddenly started spinning.

"Do you need to stay here?" he asked, all of the previous irritation gone from his voice and replaced with a gentleness that Ed immediately hated. "I'll go back and bring Al and your medication. I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were . . . this bad off."

Offence stirred in Ed's still-nauseous gut. Bad off? "No." There was no way he was going back in there after just throwing up all over Winry's front flowerbed, and he sure wasn't going to let her watch Al try to give him medication or perform alkahestry on him. She'd already made some comment about him being too thin, and the last thing she needed to see was Al drawing intimidating circles on his bare, emaciated stomach. Lately Ed could hardly stand to look at himself in the mirror, much less without his clothing on to soften the mental blow. It was difficult to see himself physically wasting away, and if he struggled with it, it was not something to subject Winry to.

Besides, the idiot should have thought of that before dragging him outside in the first place.

Ed didn't have the breath to spare on giving Mustang an explanation—not that he deserved one—and proceeded to painstakingly drag his aching body up to stand on his own two feet, waiting for the dizziness to subside a bit. Without so much as an explanation, Ed began the long journey home, one painful step at a time.

Roy made an irritated noise that Ed ignored. "You are the most stubborn brat I've ever met."

Unfortunately, the string of curses rolling through Ed's brain were not making it out of his mouth. He settled for gritting his teeth and taking another step, another cough squeezing the air from his lungs, but not halting his progress.

He could do this. If he could commit the ultimate taboo, join the military, defeat criminals and homunculi and save the world all before the age of twenty, then he could walk himself home before nightfall.

He had to. Because if he couldn't, then he would be that much closer to being dead, and he really needed Mustang to understand that.

Mustang continued to grumble and hover and all-in-all, be completely _obnoxious_ , and Ed continued to walk. He was careful to keep his eyes down and on the muddy road, because one misstep would pretty much do him in at this point. Ed's side was aching with a bone-burning intensity, and his automail port wasn't any better. He managed to avoid vomiting twice, but on the third time, had to stop to lean against a fence and throw up bloody stomach acid, vision swimming and head spinning with lightheadedness.

Mustang looked patently concerned, hovering beside him like some mother hen. "Ed, this is ridiculous. Let me help you."

"Screw . . . _off_ ," Ed panted, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. Absolutely _not_. He would sooner lose the leg entirely than let Mustang carry him.

Except, that might mean Mustang having to carry him on a more frequent basis . . .

Ugh. No. Absolutely not. It was just a little walk, and they were already almost halfway there.

Well, maybe it was more like a third, but still, Ed could make it. He made it this far. Granted, it hadn't hurt this much the first time around, but still, that just proved he could do it.

And after a pep talk like that, he was just as surprised as anyone when he took two more steps forward, then passed out in the grass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Another imported update from my ff.net. Almost there!)
> 
> Edo, what are you doing on the floor, silly.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and especially to those commenting, those give me life lol. Drop a comment, if you have the time, and I will see you next chapter :)
> 
> God Bless,
> 
> -RainFlame


	6. Chapter Six

After Ed's collapse on the way back from Winry's, Roy wasted no time in picking him up and dragging him back to his house where an agitated Alphonse was waiting.

Upon seeing his brother, all the color drained from his face.

"What happened?!"

"I don't know, he just fainted. Let's get him inside, he's soaking wet."

They hauled Ed to the kitchen, Al helping him wrest his brother onto the table. Somehow, the kitchen had become their operating theater over the past two days.

Roy peeled off the blond's sodden coat as Alphonse pulled off his boots. Ed was completely saturated from his fall, mud smeared across the right side of his face and soaked into the front of his pants and shirt.

Was it his imagination, or was that not just mud?

When Roy finally pulled the coat from the younger man's arms and took a closer look, Roy felt his stomach drop.

The mud over his left side had a dark, reddish tint to it.

Alphonse noticed, too. With a shaking hand, he pushed Ed's shirt up his too-thin stomach and inhaled sharply.

Though his old injury had been grisly before, all distorted and puckered with scarred flesh, it was positively gruesome now, a four-inch tear right in the center of it leaking more blood than should have been possible for such an old wound. Red smeared across his abdomen and chest, mixing with the mud like a child's gruesome finger painting. Roy swiped his hand over the twin scar on the blond's back, his fingers coming away warm and sticky with more blood.

If it was bleeding on the outside, it was probably bleeding on the inside. Roy now noticed the grayish tint to Ed's fingernail beds, his eyelids, his lips. It was all Roy could do to swallow his panic at that point.

They moved quickly, Roy getting a wet towel and sopping up the mess while Alphonse retrieved a first aid kit and the jar of white paint, tracing out the circle on Ed's newly-cleaned stomach and activating it.

Ed coughed weakly, a dribble of blood escaping the corner of his mouth.

"Brother?" Al asked, pressing a bloodied hand to Ed's face.

Ed's eyes fluttered but didn't open. He made a soft groan that could have been Al's name but then he stilled again.

Roy looked closer and felt some of his panic ebb: Ed's coloring, though still too pale, was not as gray, and his breathing was easier. That was a good sign, right?

"I'll call the doctor," Al said, voice hard but eyes weak.

Roy didn't bother listening in on the call, absorbed as he was in his task of cleaning the opened scar. After the alkahestry, the bleeding had stopped, the jagged opening healed in a thin, pink line against the white mutilated flesh around it.

When he had finished, he gently wiped the mud away from Ed's too-cool forehead and cheek, looking at the face of his former subordinate.

He was still so young, barely a man, though Roy reminded himself that in some ways, Ed had been an adult since the day his mother died. Still, he had a lot of life left to live. There were so many things Roy wanted for him, so many things he deserved. He had sacrificed his entire childhood after one devastating mistake, selling it for a chance to see Alphonse in his human body again. In the process, he had saved the entire country, beating one of the most powerful beings Roy had ever encountered with nothing but alchemy and his bare hands.

Why had this happened to Ed, of all people? Hadn't the Elric brothers suffered enough?

It was not fair. It was not fair at all.

There had to be something he could do.

"He said he'll be here within the hour," Alphonse said, coming to stand beside Roy. His voice sounded hollow, shell-shocked, and upon further inspection, his face was drawn, a cold fear glinting in his eyes. He almost looked as pale as his brother.

Roy doubted he looked any better. "He's freezing. Let's get him cleaned up and under some blankets. He'll be more comfortable."

After peeling off Ed's clothes, Roy carried him to the lukewarm bath Al had waiting. Alphonse carefully situated Ed's plate-less automail leg off the side of the tub as Roy lowered him into the basin, water sloshing gently to soak into Roy's shirt. Ed stirred at the contact with the water, but quickly slept again, muttering something unintelligible before falling silent with a small shiver.

Roy left Al to it, retreating to take a quick shower in the guest bathroom to wash the layers of mud and blood from his own skin before returning to help Al fish his brother's limp body out of the water, toweling him off and getting him in clean clothes and under the covers of his bed.

Through all of it, Ed didn't stir again, his features remaining still and pale. If it weren't for the shallow rise-and-fall of his chest and the faint accompanying gurgle, Roy would have mistaken him for a corpse.

"I'll wait for the doctor," Roy offered quietly. Alphonse didn't say anything, just stared at Ed with a mute nod, so Roy left Al alone with his brother and closed the door behind him.

In the wake of everything, the silence of the living room was almost ominous.

Roy looked out the wall of windows, watching the rolling clouds in the darkening sky and wind whip the grass in the fields. It was late now, the sun already setting somewhere behind the clouds and the light quickly fading, dark shadows spreading across the wooden floor of the house like a rising tide. A soft rumble of thunder rattled the glass almost imperceptibly. They might be in for another storm before the night was over.

The silence between rumblings was thick, the air heavy with a weight and a meaning that Roy had trouble placing. Foreboding? It had a gauzier, façade-like feel to it, like if he looked too closely, the sudden calm would come crashing down around is ears., letting him know that something had happened today that couldn't be reversed. The beginning of the end.

This didn't feel real.

He breathed in the sweet scent of rain and moved numbly to the kitchen, flicking on the light to display the table covered in mud and blood and Ed's discarded clothing. Roy's movements were mechanical as he began the process of cleaning, mind weighted with worry that he tried to quell into a less-disconcerting numbness as he scrubbed the smooth wooden surface.

When the kitchen was clean, he drifted back into the living room, not quite sure what to do with himself. He looked at Ed's closed door, a sliver of light pooling underneath from the lamp behind it. Roy swallowed the urge to go check on the brothers. If something changed, Alphonse would call.

In Roy's opinion, it was taking the doctor far too long to reach the Elric's house.

His eyes wondered up to the loft above the front door, the desk stacked high with books and journals and leaves of paper.

He gripped the ladder, pulling himself up the rungs in a fraction of the time he'd watched Ed do it. Desperation and curiosity moved him forward, willing to invade Edward's privacy and his sanctuary if it meant answers. Ed was a genius, but even a genius could miss something, right?

Once at the top, he turned the lamp on and he looked around, signs of Ed everywhere, from the familiar chicken scratch on his notes to the bread crumbs scattered across an open book.

Roy dreaded how empty it would feel when Ed was gone.

He squashed the thought, a heated anger suddenly pooling in his gut. He sat down in Ed's chair and began sorting through the papers in front of him with a fury that would have impressed Riza, had she been there to witness it. Roy found journals filled with information beyond anything he could comprehend, alchemic circles dealing with human anatomy that were simply above his head. In the corners of all these pages, Ed scribbled his notes:

_Would never work._

_If I could balance the reaction with another outlet . . ._

_Nope._

_Yeah right, if we ignore physics._

Roy could almost hear the sarcasm in Ed's voice and almost smiled.

Some of the notes were coded as a travel log, and Roy stacked those to the side, unwilling to try to break it at the moment. He'd tried to decipher Ed's code once before, but had given up fairly quickly, much to Ed's glee upon finding out. If it came to it, Al would be willing to help him out if he thought Roy might find something.

Roy glanced at the textbooks and reference manuals lining the shelves next to the desk but decided he didn't have time to go through them. After a quick look through what was on top of the desk, Roy went through the drawers, finding a stash of stale crackers, a drawer full of crumpled up balls of paper and other trash, and another drawer full of half-broken pencils and pens.

It was in this drawer that he found another journal.

This one was thin and worn, clearly very old. It was on top of the pencil carnage, indicating that it had been handled recently, but when Roy opened it up, he found two different styles of handwriting that looked vaguely familiar, but was much too big, almost child-like. Some entries were even in crayon. As he turned the pages, the crayon disappeared, only one individual's writing lasting past the first twenty or so pages, suddenly becoming ink and gradually becoming Ed's discernable scribbling in the last half of the book.

Near the end, Roy started reading, and any warmth he felt thinking of Ed and his quirks disappeared completely when he realized what he was holding.

This was the Elric's personal study on Human Transmutation.

The first half was Ed and Al's initial study, before their attempt with their mother.

The middle was Ed trying to figure out how to restore Al to his body.

The last two pages were Ed, trying to save his own life.

There were rows of equations, simple but eloquent, scrawled across the pages. On the last entry there was one circle, sketched in pencil and marked through with a dark line to prevent an accidental activation. It was large and complicated, the lines and angles holding a certain ominousness that could only be explained by their intended purpose.

In the bottom corner, another sardonic, heavy message glared up at him.

_As if I didn't learn the first time._

A loud banging on the door nearly had him jumping out of his seat. He took the journal, slammed the drawer shut, then practically slid down the ladder in his haste to get to the door.

Roy had all kinds of images about what a man named Doctor Samuel Fawn would look like: someone small and meek, probably older, with gentle eyes and a soft, doctorly manner.

Doctor Samuel Fawn did not meet expectations.

The man was at least six and a half feet tall and as thin as a rail, with a thick layer of dark stubble over his jawline and blue eyes that were just a few shades too light to be considered soothing. Actually, they trended more toward disturbing, haunted even, but Roy wasn't sure if it was the color or something he'd seen in his lifetime.

Years of military training, however, smoothed away any reaction Roy might have betrayed on his face. "He's in his room," was all Roy said, allowing him in.

Fawn didn't respond, his expression unreadable as he wiped his feet off on the rug and headed back to Ed's room like he'd been there a dozen times.

A sad voice in the back of Roy's head reminded him that the man probably had.

When they walked in, Alphonse was sitting by Ed's bed, just staring. He looked up at their entrance and offered a thin, watery smile in greeting. Despite the smile, he looked twenty years older. "Doctor," he said.

Fawn smiled. "Alphonse," he said, voice low and thick with an accent it took Roy a long second to identify.

"You're Drachman," he said in mild surprise.

Fawn looked at him, smile still in place, though it didn't quite reach his eyes anymore. He placed his bag on the nightstand and a wooden cooler on the floor. " _Fawn_ is short for _Faunovvick_ ," he said. "Most find _Fawn_ much easier to say." The smile dissolved and he turned back to Edward, pale and still, only half a shade warmer than the white sheets swallowing him. "What happened?"

Alphonse explained, and Fawn proceeded to examine Edward, checking vitals, his automail port, his stomach and back, large hands pressing against the flesh, feeling for something. Nodding as if finding something expected, he took a couple of pillows from the other side of Ed's bed and propped them under his feet. Then he pulled out a bag of blood from the cooler, and Roy wondered if the doctor had previously done this procedure for Ed before, as prepared as he was. Or maybe, the way Ed kept coughing up blood, he had seen this as an inevitability. Fawn produced a few feet of tubing, hooking Ed up for a transfusion with a needle in his arm, hanging the bag on the bedframe. "His blood pressure is low. He's lost a significant amount of blood it seems, but not enough, I think, for more organ damage than he already has."

Suddenly, another, gentle smile lit his features as he taped the needle down. "You know, this is much easier when he's asleep." He said it with a sad sort of sympathy under the words.

Roy couldn't help the knowing smile that pulled at his lips, but it disappeared quick enough with Al's next question.

"Why isn't he waking up?"

Fawn looked at Ed, considering. "He needs to recover from the blood loss and fatigue. His coloring is good, though. Your alkahestry seems to have helped tremendously. He will probably wake up shortly. I do have some other concerns, though, like why he is experiencing so much bleeding in the first place." Fawn pulled the blankets back for a second time, pushing up Ed's shirt to reveal the grisly wound.

"This is not normal, this tearing here," he pointed at the pink line. "It could perhaps be from excessive walking with his crutch, from the strain of throwing his weight forward from his hips. Perhaps it is from the progressive deterioration of the wound as you have mentioned, or maybe it's both. Also, even since the other day, this area around his port," he pointed to the angry, mottled skin on his thigh where flesh met metal, "has worsened. I think it's time you start utilizing that wheelchair."

_"No."_

Every eye turned to Ed.

"Brother!" Al said, standing.

"Of course you wake up for that," Roy sighed, but was desperately relieved, the invisible hand that had been slowly constricting his heart all night suddenly releasing, allowing Roy to breathe again.

Ed blinked groggily, golden eyes hazy and staring at the ceiling. He didn't look like he was all that aware of anything much, and Roy wondered if he even knew what he had said "no" to, or if that was just his contrary personality, rising up to disagree with anything and everything.

Despite that, he had enough presence of mind to find Roy, eyes latching on to him before drifting out of focus again. "Shut up," he growled, voice low and rough. He shut his eyes, leaning into the pillow, taking a deep breath.

Then, he leaned over the side of the bed and coughed hard, blood spewing across the floorboards and Al's bare feet.

"Ed!" Al cried, grabbing his brother by the shoulders.

Ed hacked again, more blood dribbling down his chin, but there was a weakness to it, like he couldn't get a deep enough breath.

Al looked at Fawn for direction, golden eyes wide and helpless, but Fawn just shook his head, indicating that he should let Ed finish trying to expel the bloody fluid from his lungs.

Then, Ed vomited, a large dark mass that was more black than red, and if Roy had to guess, he would say it was a blood clot. Several smaller ones followed, Ed choking and heaving weakly, barely holding himself up through it all.

Finally, he stopped, leaning heavily against the nightstand and staring at the floor with watery eyes. He panted, breaths weak and wheezing, the only hand Roy could see white and shaking.

Carefully, Fawn helped him lie down, Ed looking like he wouldn't have had the strength to do even that much without help, and Roy felt like he got an uncomfortable glimpse into the future if things didn't change.

Ed didn't wear helpless well. It didn't suit him in the slightest.

Roy hated watching it.

Once situated, Ed's eyes slipped closed, bloody lips moving to say something that he didn't have enough breath to give voice to. He gritted his teeth, a shiver passing through his body.

"Just rest, Ed," Al said, wiping blood from his lips with a cloth as Fawn resituated the tubing under his arm. "We'll talk about it later."

That seemed to satisfy Ed, because his lips stopped and he stilled once more. After a second, his head lolled to the side and he was asleep again, another shiver convulsing his weakened frame.

They stared at pitiful sight a few moments before Fawn spoke up. "Do you have another blanket for him?"

Alphonse nodded, pulling one from the drawers of Ed's dresser and throwing it over his brother. After that, he looked up at Fawn. "What are you thinking?"

Roy looked back to the doctor, frowning at the expression he found there. There was a tightness to those too-light eyes, and Roy knew that the doctor knew something. Something bad. The man glanced at Al then Roy, pursing his lips like he was trying to be careful. Roy was immediately wary.

"He is worse," he admitted finally. "And it's faster than we were predicting. His heart is weakening, and this bleeding . . ."

Something cold settled in Roy's stomach.

Alphonse looked at Ed, his features wavering before settling on something pained but knowing, as brittle as glass. "How long?"

Fawn's mouth pressed into a hard line. "It's hard to say. If he continues worsening at this rate, two months. Maybe three."

Al closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Alphonse. If he has other friends or family, I suggest calling them in soon, while he's well enough to enjoy it."

Roy felt like he had been punched in the gut. He wished he had, because that would have been much less painful than what he'd just heard.

His hand tightened around the journal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Currently being imported from my ff.net, so all notes may not be recent c: )
> 
> What are you thinking, Roy-boy? xD
> 
> So, I'm thinking that human transmutation involves anything having to do with dodging death. Just a theory. I'm having a hard time finding anything that specifically says what it is, other than a very vague "playing God," and the examples we see in the could be something important that I'm missing, but alas, I am missing it. So I'm making up my own rules, as usual xD
> 
> Also, all medical knowledge comes from a few A and P classes from ten years ago (dang, I'm old xD) and the internet. If you've had medical training, forgive me :')
> 
> I don't know how I feel about this chapter, so there it is lol. Thank you so much to those that have given kudos and especially commented! Now I'm going to try to switch back to DOA, because this level of angst, though somehow soothing, is also heavy lol. DOA is a bit lighter :'D You know, 'cause Ed's already dead /shot/.
> 
> I'm going to stop now lol. I hope you enjoy! If you have the time, please comment, and I'll see you next chapter!
> 
> God Bless,  
> -RainFlame


	7. Chapter Seven

Ed was aware of the pain before anything else.

It was like laying at the edge of the lake like when they were little, letting the waves lap up against his body—except it wasn't water that was lapping at him, it was a throbbing, aching _pain_ , and he wasn't at the lake, he was lying on something much softer.

Ed cracked his eyes open, wincing at the onslaught of light and shutting them again with a small groan and a shiver.

"Ed!" Alphonse said from somewhere close by. His voice was swimming with emotions far too complicated for Ed to grasp right now, so Ed didn't bother. "How do you feel?"

"Why . . . 'sit so bright?" Ed asked, tongue feeling too heavy to make the right sounds. Did they drug him or something?

"Hang on," Al said. Ed heard wood scraping against wood as the curtains were pulled and the blinding brightness was thankfully dimmed.

With another shiver, Ed pulled the blanket up around him, his right hand brushing against his own cheek in the process. Fever burned just below his skin; nothing too high, but high enough for him to be cold.

Alphonse appeared in his line of sight, a glass of water in his hand. "How do you feel? Do you remember anything?" He slipped his free hand behind Ed's shoulders, dragging him up enough to get a few sips down, excess dripping down his chin. No wonder his tongue had felt so thick; he felt dehydrated and weak.

Ed thought a moment as he drank, mind sluggishly trying to come up with memories that would explain why he was in his room and in bed in the middle of the day when the last thing he remembered was being at Winry's.

He frowned, because he suddenly remembered Mustang being in Winry's house, too.

That didn't make sense.

"Not really," he responded.

The relief on Al's face melted into something cooler as he lowered him back on the pillow, placing the glass on the nightstand with a _clank_. "You ran off without telling anybody."

Oh, yeah.

Ed remembered that.

"Roy went to find you, and you passed out on the way home. He had to drag you back here like a sack of flour."

Ed groaned and brought a hand over his face, wiping away a few traces of sweat, and hopefully his mortified expression. Mustang, carrying him? He didn't remember that, nor did he want to. "Crap."

"You were bleeding from your stomach and back."

Ed dropped his hand quickly and looked at his brother. "Bleeding? Like, on the outside?"

"Yeah," Al answered, a bit of fear wrapped in hot anger vibrating through his voice. "You scared me to death, Ed. Doctor Fawn came and . . . Ed, do you have _any_ idea what you've . . ." he trailed off, turning away from him and planting his face in his hands, hiding his distress from Ed about as effectively Ed could every hide such things from Al.

Ed pushed back the blanket despite the chill and tried to sit up, but a distinct flare of pain in his abdomen had him lying flat again with a hiss. If Al noticed, he didn't react, still turned away from him. "Al," Ed began, settling for working his way up to sit against the headboard slowly. It was only then that a sharp bite on the inside of his arm alerted him to the needle embedded in his skin. He followed the line with his eyes, seeing a bag of saline solution hanging on the bedframe behind him. A spent bag of blood caught his eye on the nightstand.

A blood transfusion?

It only took him a second to puzzle it out from there: Ed had collapsed, bleeding both inside and out, Mustang carried him home, Fawn came in and said something that upset Al. Something that upset him to the point that he couldn't even look at Ed right now.

Ed had the unsettling suspicion that he knew what that something might be.

He glanced down at his torso, slowly pulling his shirt up to reveal the ugly scar just beneath his prominent ribs. A pink line, about four inches long, tore across it like a crevice. Ed had never seen it before, but he knew what this meant. He had suspected his body would start unravelling at its weakest point, and it seemed that his body was farther along in the process than even yesterday morning.

A thrill of fear fluttered in his chest, making him cough, but thankfully it didn't turn into any sort of fit. "Al," he tried again, "What did Fawn say?"

Al took a shuddering breath, like he was steeling himself for something painful. He still refused to look at Ed, rubbing hard at his eyes. "He thinks you have less time now."

Another flutter, another cough. Ed wasn't sure if he wanted to hear this, but he _needed_ to hear this. "How long?"

Alphonse finally dropped his hands, looking up at the ceiling in a helpless, lost sort of way before turning to face him, golden eyes rimmed with red. "Two or three months."

Ed shut his eyes.

That was it?

Was this because of him? Was it because he over-exerted himself, or was this just the natural progression of things? Had he stolen time from his little brother, from Winry, with his own stubborn idiocy?

_Two or three months._

Nausea that had nothing to do with his illness stirred in his malfunctioning stomach, but he fought it down.

He needed to be strong for Al, now. He couldn't crumble because of this.

He'd made his choices. Now he would deal with the results.

He took a steadying breath. He could not afford to process this here and now with Al in the room. It was clear that his little brother had been processing it alone all night long, and Ed couldn't bear the thought of watching this tear him apart when all Ed had to do was blow it off.

He would deal with it later. Al needed him now.

"Yeah, well, what does Fawn know, anyway?" he scoffed, doing his best for it not to sound forced. It wasn't hard, in the wake of the shock numbing his mind. "Does he think he's Truth or something? Like he has all the answers."

"Brother . . ."

"I don't feel like two or three months, Al," which was very true, "So let's just forget Fawn ever opened his stupid mouth, okay? We'll just proceed as planned."

Al shut his mouth in a hard line, looking like he very much wanted to argue, but realized he might have better luck arguing with a lamp. "I'll go make us all something to eat."

Ed honestly didn't think he could swallow food right now, but Al doing that was better than Al arguing over Ed's impending death, so he nodded. "Thanks, Al."

"If you're going to get up, use the wheelchair." The order was delivered with no room for argument.

But Ed could always make room for argument. "Where's my crutch?!"

"Roy couldn't carry it and you. I'll go get it later."

And with that, he left, shutting the door behind him.

And that's when he really knew that he'd blown it. Al knew Ed loathed asking for help, but Al was so furious with him that he wasn't going to offer. Al had done it to him many times when he was in that suit of armor and Ed was being, admittedly, a complete pain while recovering from some injury or another in the hospital.

So, Ed had two choices.

He could lie here like he was supposed to, which was obviously what Al preferred.

Or he could try to get in that stupid wheelchair and get out of what was essentially his death bed.

If he had two or three months left on this earth, he wasn't going to spend longer than necessary in bed, even if the lesser of two evils happened to be a wheelchair.

Ed looked to his right, the chair situated between the window and the bed right where Fawn had left it a couple of weeks ago, innocuous enough to look at unless, like Ed, one was doomed to be confined to it. If Ed had possessed the energy then, he would have burned it to ashes, but as it was, he'd let it live to torment him another day.

This day, apparently.

With a shiver, Ed wrapped his hand around the needle in his arm and yanked, taking tape and all. It smarted, but Ed had been coping with worse lately. He tossed it on the ground, not particularly caring if a few drops got on the floor. It was already stained red anyway until Al decided to alchemize the blood away.

Then he began the slow process of sitting up.

Which hurt. A lot.

A small gasp escaped his lips, triggering a few coughs that also hurt plenty. He propped himself up on his elbows and leaned his head back, blinking stinging tears away at the ceiling and trying to breathe through the pain the way Teacher had taught him.

Maybe he wasn't able to use a crutch at the moment . . .

This was going to take forever.

"Need some help?"

Ed startled, coughing into the blanket around him, his injured stomach pulling and aching. He looked up to see Mustang leaning against the doorframe.

"Don't you believe in knocking?!" Ed snapped when he could breathe again, discarding the now-bloody corner of the blanket. Gross.

Mustang arched a delicate eyebrow. His eyes were darker than usual today, like they were hiding something, but it could have just been a trick of the light filtering valiantly through the curtains. Regardless, Ed wasn't going to question it. He had more important things to worry about than Mustang. He _always_ had more important things to worry about than Mustang. "This, coming from the runt that kicked my door down every single time he reported in?"

Ed grounded his teeth. "Mustang, when I say that I hate you, I want you to know that I mean it in the fullest sense of the word."

A smirk pulled at the older man's lips. "So, did you need some help?"

"No," Ed responded, purely out of reflex. It was one thing to have Al help him. Mustang was very much another.

Mustang sighed, like he was in pain. "Of course you don't."

"So get lost." Ed couldn't stifle the shiver that raised gooseflesh across his skin, but he didn't stop to acknowledge it, either. He slid his aching body a bit more toward the end of the bed, wincing when he put too much pressure on his automail. Why did everything hurt so bad when he was still drugged up? Fawn had to have given him something, right? Doctors were obsessed with pain management.

While Ed was stopping to breathe, he noticed Mustang was still there.

He fixed him with a glare. "This isn't a spectator sport, Mustang."

Mustang nodded. "My apologies. I guess I should participate, then." And with that, he crossed the room and took hold of the wheelchair.

"I thought I told you to get lost!"

"You did," Mustang responded. "I decided to take a page out of your book and ignore you." He situated the chair right next to the bed. "Alright, flesh foot down. Keep your weight off your automail."

Ed stared at him, like he could _will_ him away through the heat of his displeasure.

Mustang stood there and stared back, a silent challenge in his onyx eyes.

Finally, Ed relented, because he wasn't sure he had the energy to kill Mustang. "If you so much as touch me, Mustang, I will bite your hand off," he said pleasantly, sliding his flesh and blood leg off the mattress.

Mustang stood behind the chair and held it steady. "I just hope that you've had you your rabies vaccinations."

There was no one more annoying than Mustang, Ed was sure of it.

Carefully, gingerly, Ed gripped the arms of the wheelchair and slid off the bed, holding his breath as he lowered himself into the seat with no small amount of discomfort. He exhaled slowly, then sat there and panted for a minute, trying to steady his breathing and get the mounting pain under control.

Wow, that hurt.

"Better?" Mustang asked.

Ed nodded, not trusting his lungs to answer. Just the trip across the bed and into the chair had exhausted him, and he wondered how long he would have to rest before he was able to propel the chair forward.

Al might have been right. There was no way he'd have been able to get around with a crutch this afternoon.

He felt Mustang grip the handles and start to push.

Ed held a hand up, and Mustang halted. He threw the older man a dark warning glare over his shoulder, the effect somewhat muted by his panting. Then, he put his hands on the wheels and rolled himself forward a foot or so to make his point.

Mustang seemed to get the message because he sighed. Instead of reclaiming the handles, he moved to the dresser and produced a clean blanket from the bottom drawer, throwing it over Ed's shivering body.

Ed was a little thankful, because it was _cold_.

Annoyed, but thankful.

"Ed, you can hardly breathe," Mustang reasoned, his voice nothing close to patronizing, but it still stung Ed's pride. "Let me help you."

"No." Ed didn't have the energy to spare on arguing, so he gripped the wheel beside him and rolled forward, his weakened arms straining at the motion, but he would get there.

Ever since he'd lost his arm and leg, Ed had hated wheelchairs. Being stuck in one for those months after he and Al had committed the taboo were some of the worst months of his life, and wheelchairs were a symbolic and physical representation of how completely helpless he had been, unable to maneuver it with his only arm and forced to just sit and let someone take him where he didn't want to go and assist him with almost every facet of his daily life.

He hated that Mustang had seen him in one in the first place, but now it seemed that they had come full circle, Mustang once again towering over him while he huddled in the loathed contraption, weak and helpless once more.

He hated it.

"Why are you so stubborn?" Mustang asked wearily.

Ed felt like he could answer properly this time. "Screw you."

". . . and immature, to boot."

"Mustang," he paused for breath, anything to avoid a fit. He wanted to thank him for the blanket, then tell him to jump off the roof, but that had too many words and he didn't trust himself to get them all out. "Go away."

"I would," he said, a bit of ice in his voice, "except Al is too mad to help you, and neither one of us wants to see you fall on your face again. Carrying you back here in the mud was no picnic, Fullmetal. You're still heavy."

Ed felt heat that wasn't fever hit his cheeks. Thinking about Mustang carrying him was positively humiliating. "Well, maybe if you got out from behind a desk every once in a while, you wouldn't be so out of shape!" he spat, and then he coughed.

And then he coughed again.

And again.

He had nothing but the blanket over him to catch the bloody droplets as they flew from his lips, lungs and chest burning while his weakened abdomen felt like it was tearing apart from the inside out. He pressed the blanket to his mouth with one hand, while the other pressed against his old wound, a futile attempt to press the pain away.

He saw spots long before he got it under control, the image before his watery gaze coming into focus slowly.

Mustang was crouched in front of him, staring up at him with concerned dark eyes. Without waiting for permission, he pulled back Ed's blanket, then rolled up his shirt, cold fingers brushing over the scarred flesh. Ed could only assume he was checking for external bleeding, but there was none.

Ed batted him away weakly, pulling his shirt down where it belonged and clutching his side with a breathless intensity.

"Let's get you to the kitchen. I think you could use another treatment after you eat." Without waiting for Ed to agree or not, Mustang got to his feet and rounded the chair, grabbing the handles and pushing.

Ed was far too shaky and breathless to do anything about it.

He didn't feel like two or three months, but he sure didn't feel like a whole year, either.

XxXxX

Alphonse had promised himself when all of this began that whatever happened, he would be there for his brother. He reminded himself that the only reason Ed was like this in the first place was because he had joined the military trying to get Al's body back.

And though Alphonse was indubitably grateful, he would willingly go back in that suit of armor for the rest of his life if it meant Ed would be okay, because he couldn't picture life without his big brother in it.

But that wasn't an option, and Ed was dying, and there was nothing Alphonse could do.

And besides all that despair, Alphonse was also _incensed_.

Because why would his idiot brother go walking around almost half a mile to Winry's house in the rain as sick as he was and expect everything to be alright?

Al hadn't slept a wink that night, Fawn's words echoing in his head like a record stuck on repeat.

_"It's hard to say. If he continues worsening at this rate, two months. Maybe three."_

_"Two months. Maybe three."_

That part.

Al looked out the window as he scraped another five scrambled eggs onto a plate—breakfast for lunch used to be Ed's favorite. It was the middle of May now, spring flowers still bright and showy and not yet wilted by summer heat, delighting in the rain from yesterday and last night.

That meant that Ed could be gone by August.

And if he didn't get it through his thick skull that he was sick and could not do all the things he wants to do without consequence, then it might even be sooner.

Al's heart ached, because Ed was nothing if not the epidemy of independence. Ever since he'd been wheelchair-bound the first time around, he desperately craved the freedom to go where he wanted when he wanted, not tied down by anything except his love for Al and his own moral compass.

Al was afraid that this would kill him in a way that was less physical, being stuck in a wheelchair like that again, but it could not be helped. They're only other option was to let Ed kill himself hobbling around on his crutch, and that wasn't acceptable.

It was these warring thoughts that had kept him up all night, hurting for Ed and furious with him at the same time, and those horrible words . . .

_Two months. Maybe three._

And though Alphonse liked to think he had a healthy grip on his emotions and possessed healthy ways of expressing them, he was tired of crying, because he'd been doing that all night, sniveling quietly in both anger and pain by his brother's side while trying to do some more research, but unable to focus enough to produce anything significant.

He was tired of crying, and he was tired of Ed acting like an invincible idiot.

So, he hurled the spoon in his hand across the kitchen with enough rage and force to dent someone's skull—

And barely missed hitting Roy in the face.

The spoon broke against the wall with an angry _crack!_ before clattering to the floor.

The kitchen was uncomfortably silent after that.

Both Roy and Ed stared at him with widened eyes, Ed from his wheelchair and Roy from behind him, hands on the handlebars, clearly on their way to the dinner table before Al nearly caved the Brigadier General's head in.

Al had enough presence of mind to be embarrassed by the display. Chest heaving, he turned away from their inquiring gazes. "Breakfast is ready," he mumbled, grabbing a plate of bacon and the plate of eggs and placing them on the table.

Al didn't really look as Roy pushed Ed up to the table, the same place Ed had bled all over yesterday evening. Instead of joining Ed, Roy made his way to a cabinet, pulling out five juice glasses and setting them at the three place settings, two for him and Al, one for Ed. He then fetched the milk and orange juice from the ice box to place in the center.

Al put the toast out and sat heavily in the chair beside Ed and across from Roy. He didn't really want to look at either of them right now. Regardless, he snatched Ed's plate, piling it with food that he desperately wished Ed would eat, but knew that he either wouldn't or would throw it up in mere hours.

"Thanks," Ed murmured, voice raspy as he picked up his fork while Al loaded his own plate. Then Ed began his stupid game where he picked around his food and shuffled it around his plate to look like he'd eaten something without actually eating anything at all.

Al gripped his fork and stabbed a few hapless eggs at the end of it before shoving them into his mouth.

In years previous, when they fought verbally, they would spar physically. It had always made Al feel better, just the act of knocking some sense into Ed enough to help take out his frustrations.

Now, that option was clearly out, and Al was forced to sit and stew.

Breakfast was a silent affair, each keeping to their own thoughts behind mouthfuls of eggs, bacon and toast. When the meal was finished, Al and Roy stacked plates into the sink, then Al returned to the table with a jar of paint and a juice glass filled with pills, finally daring to look his brother in the face. He wordlessly handed him the pills, then leaned down in front of him, reaching out his hand and pulling the blanket back and Ed's shirt up. Ed raised his hands in protest like he might push Al out of the way, but apparently thought the better of it after seeing the look in Al's eyes.

"Be still," Al ordered when Ed shifted a bit after the cold paint bit his skin. Al traced the familiar alkahestry circle over Ed's concaved stomach, the activation leaving Ed slumped and breathless in his chair.

A sympathetic twinge forced an apology out of his mouth before he could remind himself how angry he was.

Ed looked at him with bemusement, hands holding his stomach and smearing paint. He didn't say anything though, because after the events of last night, combined with how exhausting alkahestry was, it had probably stolen his breath.

Al didn't wait for him to say anything, though. "I'm going for a walk," he announced, eyes on Ed but announcing more for Roy. He got up and stalked out the back door, closing it gently behind him.

XxXxX

When Ed could speak again, he didn't.

He just sat in his wheelchair and stared at the collection of pills in the glass, feeling a bit lost in his own kitchen.

"You're supposed to swallow them," Mustang offered helpfully, washing another plate with soap and placing it on the drying rack. "With orange juice, if you'd like."

Ed didn't immediately respond to the pleasant-ish jibe, far too tired to be easily provoked.

"Want me to get you some milk instead?"

Ed dragged his tired eyes up to meet Mustang's, his own irritation muted behind exhaustion. "I don't drink cow juice," he said with no heat and no energy. He was completely spent, the alkahestry helping with the pain but doing nothing for the lethargy it had ironed into his bones or the anxiety climbing up his throat.

He really wanted to talk to Al.

The only problem was, he had no idea what to say. Oh, that and his wheelchair wasn't all-terrain. Ed didn't know if he possessed the strength to get it across the living room at the moment.

He gazed out the back door, but his brother was nowhere in sight and Ed wasn't sure when he would be back. Ed's eyes slid to the spoon that was still on the floor, broken in three neat little pieces and surrounded by chips of paint from the cabinet above.

Yeah, Al was furious with him.

"Ed, take your pills."

Ed looked back at the glass all but forgotten in his hands with plenty of disdain. He found one he didn't recognize in the mix, fishing it out with shaking fingers. "What's this?" he asked, holding up the small white pill.

Mustang looked at it, his expression closing down to become that impenetrable mask he'd always wear when delivering bad news. "Morphine. For the pain."

Ed felt sick.

He knew a few things about morphine. He'd been in the hospital enough to be acquainted with it, but this one he knew well from watching his mom die.

There, at the end, when she wasn't going to get any better, the doctor put her on morphine. Ed had read the instructions and the warnings wrapped around the medications his mother received, a seven-year-old trying desperately to help his mother in whatever ways he could, even if it was just making sure she took the right dose at the right time. He recalled a few key facts: you were not supposed to take it if you had trouble breathing, or if you had intestinal blockage.

So, either Fawn was an idiot—and he wasn't—or Ed was too far gone for it to really matter, because he had both of those things.

Either way, it ticked him off, so he flicked the pill contemptuously across the table and swallowed the rest dry, chasing it down with the remains of his orange juice.

Mustang watched without comment, fetching the discarded pill and placing it back into its bottle.

"You may as well sell that on the black market or something," Ed muttered. "I'm not going to take it."

Mustang's smile was cool, but Ed had been studying those black eyes long enough to see the glimmer of pain behind them. "I see." The words were soft, almost apologetic, like he knew something Ed didn't.

Ed hated it. "Stop your stupid smirking and . . . help me outside." The request was almost painful, because requesting help—and from _Mustang_ , of all people—was not something Ed enjoyed. It made him feel the full weight of his helplessness, and that was enough to feel the scrape of nausea on the back of his tongue and the sting in his pride.

But it was better than just _sitting_ here, Mustang with that stupid pity in his eyes and Ed trapped in his stupid wheelchair.

Mustang seemed stunned by the demand as well. He hadn't been smirking at all, but the older man would understand the request under the words.

_Don't look at me like I'm dying._

Mustang dried his hands, then stepped behind the wheelchair, taking the handlebars and gently guiding him out of the kitchen.

"You're slower than _me_ , Mustang," Ed groused, mostly for something to say.

"And you're more obnoxious than me," Mustang returned, not hurrying his pace in the slightest. "I didn't realize it was a competition."

As they passed the coffee table, Ed snagged a book from the top, one called _Alchemy and the Body_. Ed was over halfway through it and it had not proved helpful yet, but he was still hoping for some stupid reason.

"If I wasn't already tired, I would clock you."

"I wish you would put that genius mind of yours to work on something more useful than idle threats," Mustang sighed.

"We'll see how idle it is after I catch my breath."

"Shaking in my boots, Fullmetal."

Ed rolled his eyes. What a pain.

Mustang made it to the back door an eternity later, pulling the door open and wheeling Ed through. The air outside was colder than the day before, and Ed was endlessly grateful for the blanket around his shoulders, the cool air enough to send a shiver through his feverish body.

Mustang noticed. "Are you sure this is comfortable for you?"

Ed waved him off, eyes searching the surrounding fields for any signs of his brother. "It's just fine, Mustang." He reached out for the arm of his rocking chair.

Mustang arched an eyebrow and asked, "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm sitting in my chair," he responded hotly. "Is that a problem?"

"It is when you have to almost kill yourself to do it." Without waiting for permission, Mustang grabbed his elbows and hoisted him to his feet, pulling him in close enough for Ed to catch faint scent of earth and mesquite.

"Hey!" he protested, but Mustang ignored him, and Ed had no interest in wresting himself from the older man's grip only to fall on the hard deck below, so he took some slow, limping steps with Mustang's support before the alchemist helped ease him into the rocker.

The whole maneuver did not come without consequence, and Ed pressed his hand to his side, trying to dampen the sharp ache the movement had encouraged. But if he were being honest with himself, he would admit it probably hurt a lot less than it would have if he'd done it on his own.

He completely hated this.

Mustang was hovering over him now like he was a few seconds from lifting Ed's shirt to check for bleeding again. With some effort, Ed pulled his hand away from the wound, trying to nonchalantly press his elbow into it instead as he leaned on one arm rest. Yeah, real smooth. He looked like an idiot.

"New rule," he announced. "You don't get to touch me. Ever."

Mustang smirked, but that concern still haunted his eyes. "I agree to your terms until the next time you do something stupid, which will probably be in about two minutes."

"You know, the train tracks are lovely this time of day. I hear it's nice to just lay across them with your eyes closed. Why don't you try it?"

Mustang's eyes looked strained, and it bothered Ed to no small end. He just kept _looking_ at Ed like he was glass, like he was savoring something that was soon to be gone. But that stupid smirk was still there, hollow on his face as he took the rocker next to Ed. "Then who would be here to discourage your idiotic behavior?"

"An idiot trying to discourage _me_ from being idiotic? That's rich."

Mustang's smirk diminished somewhat. "How long do you think Alphonse will be gone?"

Ed's returning smile was more of a grimace. "With how mad he is? Probably a few hours. He's probably down at the river." Mustang gave him a curious look, so Ed elaborated. "That's where he goes when I've ticked him off."

"He's probably got quite the campsite by now."

For the millionth time, Ed wished he could still do alchemy. He could think of a few arrays that would launch the smirking jerk from here to Xing. "No one is entertained right now, Mustang."

Mustang didn't respond, and they rested in what could almost be called amiable silence. Ed opened his book and tried to read, but worry for Alphonse kept most of it from really registering.

A dark shape caught his eye and he turned to see Cat wonder over from the side of the house, staying close to the wall, paws silent on the deck. She finally stopped between the two chairs as she assessed the situation before her, black pelt gleaming and tail swishing.

"Well, come on," Ed sighed, shifting his book to the side.

Mustang just noticed her, turning his head to see her give him a dirty look before jumping up in Ed's lap and making herself comfortable. She sprawled across his thighs like she belonged there, a large yawn broadcasting her sharp teeth in what Ed could only assume was Mustang's direction.

Ed liked Cat. She was a good judge of character.

Mustang gave the animal an appraising look before standing up. "I'm going to go make a phone call. Shout if you need something."

Ed waved him off. "Sure, Mustang." The man disappeared from Ed's line of sight and into the house behind him.

Ed lifted his eyes to scan the surrounding area one more time for his brother, one hand absently stroking the animal in his lap to help relieve the mounting anxiety in his throat.

Yeah, he _really_ hated this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Currently importing this fic from my ff.net, so some A/Ns may be out of date c: ).
> 
> I don't know why this silly website insists on mashing up italicized words with the one next to them. I skimmed through to fix them, but pretty sure I missed half a dozen lol.
> 
> I didn't forget about DOA, I just got a bit stuck on it, so switched to this one like I usually do, and then this monster appeared out of nowhere. I'm not usually able to write so much so fast, so hopefully it's decent. I usually read through these several times before posting, but due to me leaving tomorrow, this one has not gotten the same care.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! We'll check in with Mustang next chapter and see what he's up to . . . Please leave a comment if you have the time, and Lord willing, I'll see you next time!
> 
> God Bless,  
> -RainFlame


	8. Chapter Eight

_"Brigadier General Mustang's office, Captain Hawkeye speaking,"_ her voice came, crisp and clear.

"Captain," Roy greeted, careful to keep up the formality on a military line. As much progress as Fuhrer Grumman was making on abolishing the anti-fraternization laws, some caution was still required, and Roy didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea, for Riza's sake.

_"Brigadier General,"_ she greeted, voice warming a couple of degrees. _"How is Ed?"_

Roy paused, choosing his next words carefully, eyes shifting to look out the window where Ed sat in his rocking chair, golden hair ruffling in the breeze.

His team only knew what he'd known upon leaving Central, with scarcely an update since. Things were different now. Worse. "Not good," he answered honestly. "I need a favor."

_". . .What is it?"_

"Can you arrange to have everyone out to visit Resembool? Maybe next Saturday? Anyone that Ed knows or might want here. It . . . it might be the last time."

Silence. Then, _"I understand, Sir,"_ she said quietly. _"I'll arrange it."_

"Thank you, Captain. One more thing, can you bring me the updates on the Ishval Restoration Project? I would like to review the progress we've made and how much remains to be done."

If she found it odd that he was requesting his paperwork to be delivered to him while on leave, she didn't comment. _"Yes Sir, anything else?"_

He thought a moment. "Just make sure that Marcoh makes it."

_"He will be there,"_ she promised.

"Thank you, Hawkeye," he said. He wished she was here. She always knew what to do, what to say. "I will see you in a few days."

_"Yes, Sir. Take care of those boys."_

"I will."

She hung up first, leaving Roy listening to an empty dial tone before he placed the phone back in its cradle. He stared at it another moment before reaching a hand into the couch cushions beside him, withdrawing Ed's journal.

He had a lot to think about over the next few days.

XxXxX

Mustang had disappeared indoors not ten minutes ago, and Ed was expecting to be alone for a while.

Then Winry materialized from the corner of Ed's vision, making him jump before realizing who it was. Cat startled in his lap, diving off and under a nearby bush for cover. "Winry!" he yelped, coughing into his blanket before rolling the corner to hide the blood. "What . . . are you . . .?"

"I told you I'd be back for my coat," she responded, her voice cheery. Her steps faltered however when she got to the base of the deck and caught sight of the wheelchair beside Ed. Her blue eyes slid to meet his, questioning.

Ed could feel his face heating at the reminder, at her knowing. He knew it shouldn't bother him so much, but it did. "Want to help me set it on fire while Al's not looking?"

"Ed . . .," she started, the cheeriness gone from her voice. "What's wrong? Is it something with your automail?"

Ed brushed the comment off. "Of course not. Your automail is perfect. I . . . well, I had some problems yesterday and the doctor wants me to lay off the walking for a while. I should be back up in a week." The doctor hadn't said that part, but it was what Ed was planning, anyway.

Funny how much he missed his crutch when the alternative was the wheelchair.

Winry didn't look convinced. This was why Ed didn't want her around the house; as much as he loved seeing her, she was way too perceptive. "You look pale," she commented.

He offered a half-shrug. "I _am_ pale. You going to just stand there, or are you going to come kiss me?"

She smiled a bit at that, stepping onto the porch to plant a kiss on his lips. He wanted nothing more than to keep that going, but he knew Mustang couldn't be long, so he reluctantly let her pull away all too soon.

"Where is everyone?" she asked, looking back behind Ed into the house.

"Colonel Idiot is inside," Ed explained. "Al is . . . well, he went that way," he said, pointing to the side of the house, back where fields met the beginnings of the forest and the river curled past Resembool.

Her expression soured. "What did you do this time?!"

_"Me?!"_ Ed demanded, trying very hard to stifle a cough. "Who . . . who says I did anything?!"

She glared down at him. "Al doesn't head down to the river unless you do something incredibly stupid. So, what was it?"

Ed scowled. "Nothing. I just disagreed with some of the doctor's instructions."

"You're lucky I don't have a wrench on me."

"So you keep saying," Ed countered. "You might have to pick up the coat tomorrow, though," he said. At her frown, he turned away. "I might have dropped it in the mud on the way home. We haven't had a chance to get it cleaned up yet."

She narrowed her blue eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. "Oh, really? Did you happen to be _in_ the coat when it dropped?"

". . . I don't think that's important."

She turned away and exhaled slowly through her nose, like she was trying to force out the anger. Ed thought she succeeded because when she turned back to him, she had that closed, disappointed look on her face.

He was torn between asking her to sit with him on the porch or telling Mustang to clean her coat so she could go and stop looking at him like that. She and Alphonse shouldn't have all that power over him. "Winry," Ed began, but she interrupted him.

"I'm going after your stupid brother. And then we're going to talk," she said, stepping off the porch.

"Wait!" Ed called, making to get up before reality set in. He felt his left lung spasm in his chest, driving out a series of rough, painful coughs. He saw Winry falter, but she didn't stop, marching around the house and out of his sight.

The blood stains doubled, then tripled in size, and Ed couldn't breathe. His throat was on fire, his body ached, and he really hoped Winry wouldn't come back now to see this. Let her find Al.

Whatever it took to keep her away and to not see any of this.

XxXxX

With a slow breath, Alphonse stepped forward, movements sure and precise, slipping into the next pose with ease.

Another breath, another pose, one leg in front of him, hands pulled back for support.

Another, this time the other leg out, body low.

The poses were simple exercises Teacher had taught them all those years ago. When he was able, Al had used them after he got his body back to help improve his balance and strength, and now they served to cool his hot temper, taming it into something more manageable.

If he couldn't beat Ed to a bloody pulp, shadow boxing would have to do.

Warm-up completed, he took a few test jabs, left and right, then left. He proceeded to attack an enemy that didn't exist, leaping forward and striking out with a foot into the empty air. He landed light, sliding through the sand at the river's edge, then swinging his leg behind him to catch another invisible foe.

As a suit of armor, Al had been adept at using his fists, while Ed preferred landing blows with his feet, jumping and flying around like a caffeinated monkey. Now that Al was in a flesh and blood body, though, he saw the appeal. It felt good to move through the air, his body flying fast and the wind ruffling his hair and kissing his skin. Al didn't take sensations for granted anymore, and he marveled in the simple joy of it.

Until he reminded himself that Ed couldn't do things like this anymore.

It was funny, in a sad sort of way. Now that Al was no longer trapped in a body that was slowly failing him, Ed was, his spirit in a body that was sick and tired and trying to reject it.

Al had come out to forget his problems for a while, but it seemed that nothing could distract him from his brother dying.

Alphonse was torn, because on one hand, Ed trekking out across Resembool while sick was such an Ed thing to do. It was heartening in a way. But on the other hand, Ed needed to understand his body couldn't keep up with his whims anymore. Al was just afraid when he finally understood that, it would effectively kill him. He would sit in that wheelchair and wither away into nothing until his soul passed from his body.

Either Ed acted as Ed had always acted and drove himself into the grave, or he acted with a caution and reason that did not suit him at all and killed his spirit. There really wasn't any winning, was there?

Lost in his musings, Al didn't see the partially-buried river rock until it was too late. He caught his foot on it, overcorrected, pinwheeled, then fell in an unceremonious heap on the ground.

That's how Winry found him, sprawled in the sand.

"Al?" she asked, blue eyes concerned. "Are you alright?"

Alphonse sat up slowly, panting hard and cradling his shoulder that took the brunt of the impact. He grunted, "Yeah, just tripped."

Winry stared down at him a moment, assessing, then sat down under the shade of an oak a couple of feet away. With a little pain, Al scooted back to join her under the cover of the tree and away from the burning sun, breathing and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

The river rushed in front of them, a dull roar that Al had always found so soothing, the sun glancing off its surface and making it glisten and shine like serpent's scales. The wind picked up a bit, rushing over the water and cooling the air around them. It was warm today, but not as warm as it would be in a few weeks. Al didn't like looking that far ahead anymore, though. He was never quite sure if he should be picturing the next month with or without Ed in it.

"It's a nice day," Winry said, the words awkward, like she was gearing up to address something else.

"Yeah," Al agreed. "What are you doing out here?"

"Looking for you." She avoided his gaze, her pale, calloused hand reaching beside her to pluck a blade of grass from the ground. She twirled it back and forth between her fingers. "I figured Ed did something stupid if you were out here by the river."

Al felt his lips twitch in a sheepish grin. "Guess I'm a little predictable that way."

She suddenly turned to him, fixing her electric blue eyes on his in a way that made it hard to look away. "Alphonse, can you be honest with me?"

Al frowned, not liking where this was going. Winry was his best friend, aside from his brother. Why would he lie to her? What was she asking? "Of course, Winry."

"I want you to tell me what's going on, Al. All of it." She looked away. "I saw you two when you walked up to my house all covered in blood, you without a body and Ed without half his limbs. I know I'm not as strong as you guys are, but I've seen a lot. I'm tired of you two keeping me in the dark. All I know is that Ed is sick, and he won't tell me how or with what or let me help. Ed and I were going to get married. I think I deserve to know why he thinks we can't anymore." Her voice was thick, but she didn't cry.

Al looked away. He generally tried to avoid talking to her about Ed's condition, mostly because Ed had asked him to. Ed said he would tell her what he thought she should know, and knowing his brother, that probably wasn't very much.

But, if anyone could talk Ed out of being an idiot, it was Winry. Even Al didn't have that power, and Al didn't like keeping her in the dark. It wasn't that he thought she should know all the horrible details, but he thought, of anyone, she deserved to know what Ed was up against.

So he told her, and he held her when she cried into his shirt.

XxXxX

"Are you alright?"

Ed didn't bother looking up at Mustang. He settled for cradling his stomach with one hand and his head with the other. "Just peachy," he mumbled, voice sounding weaker than he would have liked.

Over the past couple of hours, Ed became increasingly aware of the rising pain in his gut. He thought it on par with the pain he'd felt trying to walk home yesterday, but it was somehow worse, more pervasive than before. With it came a roiling nausea that had him fairly convinced he was about to lose his lunch. Oh well, he'd kept it down for a few hours. That was enough to get some nutrition out of it.

His coughing fit from earlier had taken a while to pass, but when it did, Ed thought he was in the clear. It hadn't ended in vomiting, so that was always a plus.

Apparently, he'd rejoiced a little too soon.

If Al had been around, Ed would have almost begged him to work his alkahestry on him despite it not being quite time for a treatment, but Ed had ticked him off and now he'd been gone well over four hours. Winry hadn't shown back up either. Under normal circumstances, he'd probably be a bit worried that they were gone so long, but as it was, he was trying really hard not to vomit.

"Let's go inside," Mustang suggested. Ed heard more than saw him getting to his feet.

Ed made a grunting noise instead of words and tried again. "No. Don't move me." Sweat pricked at his forehead and neck, beading and sliding down his skin, and a shiver just made him wince.

"Ed, what is it? What's wrong?"

Really, what was right? He screwed his eyes shut and breathed, riding through a particularly stunning wave of pain. Wow.

The nausea climbed in his throat.

Yeah, he was going to lose it.

Something hard and cool was pressed into his hands. Ed opened his watery eyes to find the trash bin Mustang had placed under his chin. Ed hadn't heard him go get it.

Just in time, too. His stomach clenched hard, driving up what little he had eaten mixed with bile and blood. The way it pulled at his stomach caused his side to flare with bright pain, making him gasp and choke then vomit again, stars swirling in his field of vison.

He really hoped he wasn't about to die from drowning in his own mess. How embarrassing was that?

He couldn't get a good breath in to even cough and his vision blackened around the edges. He pressed his hand to his side, writhing as his stomach felt like it was splitting open from the inside out. Apparently, he leaned too far forward, because the next thing he knew he was on the floor.

Which was fine by him, because it gave him some leverage to press and push on his side, like he could push the pain back down where it belonged. His hands shook and he vomited again.

Ed wasn't sure when it happened, but Mustang was on the ground with him, forcibly pulling him onto his side. On a cold, intellectual level, Ed knew that it was just to keep him from drowning. Instinctively, though, Ed didn't want him touching him because everything hurt, and Mustang's hands made it hurt worse. Ed would have screamed, but his open mouth only allowed more blood to escape.

Mustang murmured something Ed couldn't hear, then pulled up Ed's shirt and pressed his hands down against his stomach, pinning his knees against Ed's back. Ed was probably bleeding from both. His hands slipped on the blood and Ed tried to scream again at another wave of pure agony, choked, then kept choking.

He couldn't breathe.

"I'm sorry," Mustang murmured in his ear, voice sounding muffled and far away and with an undernote of fear that made Ed's panic kick up another notch, because if he was scared, it must be pretty bad.

Of course, not being able to breathe didn't help at all.

"You can get through this, Ed," he was saying, one hand smoothing sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead and face. Ed tried to take another breath, but it caught on more fluid and he coughed, lungs spasming and blood trickling down the corner of his mouth. The pain was almost just as bad as when he'd actually been impaled, and he looked down at his stomach just to make sure there wasn't a beam threading through his organs. All he could see was Mustang's hand pressed around his stomach, blood bubbling between his fingers.

Ed regretted looking.

Another wave of pain seized him and he writhed, clawing at his own stomach and hacking, the only air he was getting between gasps. He'd stopped vomiting, but maybe that was because the liquid pooling in his guts had found a new avenue of escape through Mustang's fingers.

"It's going to be okay," Mustang promised. Ed wanted to laugh, but then again, he really just wanted to breathe. "I want you to breathe through your nose, Ed, do you think you can do that? Just one breathe in, then out."

Ed tried it because he didn't have any better options, breathing in through his nose, choking, then coughing. It felt like someone was stabbing him in the chest with every gasping inhalation.

"I'm going to try alkahestry, okay?" Mustang said. "Can you just breathe for me until I get back?"

Though he'd normally be bristling at the stupidity of the question, Ed found his tone and his presence oddly comforting, so he decided to let it slide.

"Hold this," Mustang said, guiding Ed's hands over his own belly and pressing down.

Ed's mouth opened in a silent scream at the change of pressure, the horrible burning feeling searing him from the inside out. He curled tighter around himself, only half-aware of Mustang leaving, then returning. His hands were on Ed's shoulder, flattening him against the floorboards. Ed thought he heard a crash somewhere, maybe the rocking chair being kicked away. He tried to curl back in on himself, but Mustang held him down, pressing a sheet of fabric just below his ribs.

Ed threw his head back and locked eyes with Winry.

She was standing a dozen yards away, frozen. Al had already blown past her, almost on the deck, but Ed only had eyes for Winry. Her blue eyes were wide, soft mouth slack as she drank in the sight. She had those lines etched around her forehead that said what she was looking at was horrifying.

An eternity later, Mustang activated the circle.

The relief was immediate, if not as refined as Al's results. The pain spiked, then abated, receding to a dull ache that was _so_ much more manageable. The seizing in his lungs stilled, letting him breathe and keep the air for more than a split second. Blood had stopped running through his fingers now, and Mustang scooped him up in his arms, holding him close there on the porch. Ed really wanted to fight him off, but he was too cold and too tired and honestly, the older man's warmth felt really good to his freezing skin. Almost against his will, he curled into it, letting his head rest on the older man's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," Al whispered, shadows of guilt chasing each other through his golden eyes as he crouched down in front of them, his hand touching Ed's side. "I shouldn't have left, I'm so sorry."

Ed wanted to tell him that it was fine, but when he tried to move his lips, no sound came out. He shuddered in Mustang's arms, a much more manageable cough expelling the remaining fluid from his throat and lungs.

Winry stepped up to the porch and crouched beside him, shock carved into her beautiful face like scars. Ed reached out a hand, but he was too weak to hold it and let it fall. She caught it, fingers automatically weaving through his.

Ed wanted to apologize, but with no more luck than when he'd wanted to talk to his brother. His eyelids felt as heavy as the rest of him did, but he looked at Winry and willed her to understand how sorry he was.

He never wanted this for her. He never wanted this to happen to him, and he never wanted her to have to see it.

"Ed," she whispered, tears welling then spilling over her eyes.

Here he was, making her cry. Seemed like he'd gone and screwed up everything. Again.

Ed shivered, thankful for Mustang's warmth at his side and his arms around him, but it wasn't enough to fend off the ice that had found its way into his chest. His eyelids closed before he even knew they had, and it took him a moment to open them again.

"Let's get him inside and cleaned up," Mustang said. "He's freezing. He needs a transfusion."

His eyes slipped closed again and he couldn't open them.

XxXxX

Ed woke up a long time later, he thought.

He was in the living room, sprawled across the couch. His head was pillowed against something warm and soft and he probably had five blankets piled over him and he still shivered.

It was with no small amount of irony that Ed decided he felt like he'd been impaled.

"Ed?" Winry asked. So, he was in her lap. Well, there were much worse places to be.

Ed spied Alphonse sitting on the same couch at his feet, a forgotten book in his lap as he looked at him with concerned eyes, but Ed didn't have the energy to address it. An IV line bright with blood ran from his inner arm. Ed followed the tubing to the tree stand above them with a conglomeration of bags and tubes hanging off it, then another red tube that disappeared under his blankets, probably into his own arm.

"Ed?" Winry said again, her slim fingers combing through his clean hair. He really didn't want to think about who cleaned what up on him or how that was done, but he did appreciate not waking up covered in his own blood and fluids. "Are you awake?"

He grunted, shivering a moment. In his movement, he caught sight of Mustang sitting in the overstuffed chair, dark eyes fixed on him. Ed decided he didn't want to be laying down anymore and tried to prop himself up on an elbow, pain clawing at his stomach.

Practically everyone in the room jumped, arms raised to force him back down, but Winry beat them all to it, barring an arm over his shoulders and easily halting his movements even if the pain hadn't already killed his ambitions. He sucked in a breath and coughed a bit, tasting blood. His throat felt like he'd swallowed a box of nails. "Ed, don't move, please," she begged.

Well, he'd already ruined her day, so he supposed complying with that small request was manageable. He settled for turning on his side so he could better hold his side, because that hurt quite a bit, actually. He tried to figure out what time it was based off of the twilight-like sky outside, but he couldn't tell if it was dawn or dusk. The lamps in the house were on, so that and everyone being awake hinted more toward dusk, but he couldn't be sure.

Everyone was staring at him, so he frowned and glared back. "What?" the demand came out more like a croak than a question.

Al, Mustang and Winry exchanged glances over his head, which annoyed him to no end, but he was much too tired to tell them off. He settled for a scowl.

"We were discussing your new protocol," Mustang finally supplied.

Joy. Ed was sure he was going to love this. "And?" he wheezed.

More looks. Then, "We'll talk about it when you're more awake," Al said. "Mustang, could you get him some water?" he asked, gesturing to his arm and how he was currently tethered to Ed.

Mustang got up without a word, heading to the kitchen with those dark eyes on Ed in a tight, closed way that Ed knew meant he was processing things.

Ed turned his gaze on his brother. "Where'd . . . this?" Ed asked, looking pointedly at the tubes over his head and hoping his little brother got the gist. Much more talking and he was going to choke. He didn't know if his throat and stomach could take much more of that at the moment.

Al understood. "Doctor Fawn showed me how yesterday," he said. "We're the same type, but we still need to keep an eye out for a reaction." That being said, he put the book down beside him and stood, taking the tubing and a bag of his own collected blood with him. He came beside Ed, staring at his face, then slipping a couple of fingers under his jaw. Ed thought he did a really good job of putting up with it. "Your heart rate's better, and so is your color. How do you feel?"

"Great," Ed supplied, suppressing an annoyed groan when Al pulled the blankets back and his shirt up, examining his stomach, his warm hands reaching around his back to check for blood. He really didn't need Winry to see this, but maybe she already had.

"Be honest, Edward," Winry warned, her voice firm but her gaze locked on his emaciated stomach, a little bit of horror in the set of her eyes.

"Like crap?" he tried, batting Al away and pulling his shirt back down and the blankets back up. It was way too cold for that anyway.

"It's like dealing with a child," Al sighed. "Brother, I need you to be specific, please."

Ed scowled at him. Al knew good and well he didn't want to get into this with Winry here.

On the other hand, Winry had seen him out on the back porch writhing in his own blood and vomit, so maybe it wasn't possible to do much more damage.

Regardless, Ed was a tiny bit grateful when Mustang showed up with that glass of water. Al relinquished his spot to the older man, plucking the IV from his own bruised arm with a wince and attaching Ed's own line to a saline bag.

"I'm going to help you sit up. Don't move," Mustang ordered, voice hard, like he expected to be obeyed.

Ed only wished he could call him derogatory names, but his throat was too dry for that. He couldn't even manage to resist as Mustang slid his hand under his shoulders and, with Winry's support, got him sitting.

Owe.

Ed breathed for a moment, slowly, probably leaning too heavily against Winry as she snaked a gentle, supporting hand around his middle and Mustang placed the glass to his lips. Ed grimaced and took it, but his hands shook and Mustang wouldn't let go. Ugh. This was embarrassing on way too many levels.

He'd gone from just him and Al, to Mustang and Winry, too. Who was next, the whole team?

He swallowed several small sips, the cool water providing some relief for his burning throat. It felt good and helped wash the stale taste of bile from his mouth. He would kill for some toothpaste right now, though. Mustang took the glass from his shaking hands, setting it on the side table. He didn't leave though, just looked at him like he might a difficult alchemic puzzle.

"Keep staring, Mustang. Maybe I'll do a trick." His voice sounded like sandpaper.

The corner of Mustang's lip quirked up, but Al interrupted any witty comeback Mustang was about to launch his way. "Ed, Winry knows everything now."

Ed didn't know why he tried to keep secrets anymore when Al just _told_ everyone. "Maybe you should run an ad in the paper: _'Famous Fullmetal Alchemist, Now Disabled Bum.'_ It's an easier way to tell everyone we know. Has a ring to it, too." The comments had no heat in them because Ed couldn't really blame his little brother. Ed didn't doubt that watching his only sibling die completely sucked, and Al deserved to have support.

Ed just really wished it hadn't been Winry. She deserved better, too. They both did.

Al pressed his lips together, looking guilty and unapologetic at the same time. "She asked. She deserves to know."

Ed sighed. "Yeah." He reached behind him, finding her other hand and taking it. She latched on. She didn't say anything, but Ed couldn't see her face without twisting his stomach, and he wasn't quite ready for that.

"Ed, you've got to start following the doctor's protocol," Al continued.

Ed suddenly found the blanket in front of him very interesting.

"The way these fits keep progressing, you're going to have to be careful," Mustang said. "No more stunts."

"Hey! I didn't do anything this afternoon!" Ed protested. "I'd followed protocol all morning!" He coughed a bit into a blanket. That hurt.

Al shook his head. "You shouldn't have gotten up by yourself this morning and you know it."

"You didn't let me help you nearly as much as you should have," Mustang pointed out. Ed wanted to 'help him out' with a fist to his face, but that might have upset Winry and Al, so he left the general's dumb face intact.

"Ed," Winry said behind him, voice small and fragile, like dragonfly wings. Ed turned his head to the side, his hand that wasn't holding hers sliding to rest on top of the one she had around his waist. "I know you hate it so much, but please, Ed. Please stop fighting everyone. Al and Roy just want to help. _I_ want to help. Please stop holding us at arm's length."

"We know it sucks," Al added. "We know if you could have it any other way, you would."

"You're not an invalid," Mustang said sternly. "No one sees you that way, you're just sick. It's not a commentary on your strength that your body is struggling, Ed. You're the strongest brat I know."

If Ed had the ability, he would have gotten up and left. He didn't like what they said, what they were implying, or the way all of them _looked_ at him. He didn't appreciate being ganged up on, either.

Ed's eyes slid to the wheelchair parked against the wall.

If he listened to them, he was probably never going to walk again. Following protocol was only supposed to keep him breathing longer, not cure him. They were asking him to sign away his freedom.

But, Ed supposed, his life had always belonged to Al—and more recently, to Winry—anyway.

A few more months shouldn't bother him too much. They were the reason he wanted to keep breathing in the first place, so he shouldn't really complain at the way they wanted him to live.

And he was so tired.

"If you want to spend your day hauling me around in a wheelchair, knock yourselves out," he mumbled, leaning his head back into Winry's shoulder.

The smiles Ed saw them exchange were small, though not exactly happy. Maybe they were relieved, but Ed didn't want to think about it anymore. This was what they wanted.

It had always been about them, and for now, Ed was satisfied with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm so sorry, I forgot to post this here! Please forgive me!)
> 
> I really should be careful about long updates. People are going to think I'm a competent writer or something xD
> 
> This one wrote itself pretty fast, so *shrugs* there you go.
> 
> It's ten million degrees here, so I bought a kiddie pool and I've been thoroughly enjoying it. Hands-down the best $5 I've spent all summer long. It' s got these fantastic little robot sharks on it that match my shark towel. I feel super coordinated when I'm out there lounging, reading fan fiction lol. If you're looking for a perk of being an adult, it's the ability to buy $5 kiddie pools. It really is the little things in life.
> 
> Now, blowing that thing up was no picnic, but I enjoyed the end results. I considered it vocal pedagogy. Gotta work on that breathe support #choirteacherlife
> 
> I'm going to go study for a final I take in two hours, so wish me luck lol.
> 
> Aaaaaaand, it sounds like something is breathing in my kitchen, so I'm low-key freaking out. What even.
> 
> I'm not going to look.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! If you have the time, please leave a comment (they give me life) and I will see you next chapter! (Unless the thing breathing in the kitchen eats me).
> 
> God Bless,
> 
> -RainFlame


	9. Chapter Nine

The next week, Den died.

Winry was completely distraught, Den being her companion since they were little kids. The dog was at least seventeen years old, which Ed thought was pretty old by dog standards. It wasn't like they didn't see it coming; they just didn't see it coming so soon.

She'd been old, but not sick. Winry had woken up that morning to find her cold and stiff on the ground beside her bed. Ed was at least grateful that she had gone quietly in her sleep.

He wasn't sure that he'd get off that easy.

Ed wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. The foreshadowing was not lost on him or anyone else, he knew, but outside in Winry's side yard, staring down at the shallow grave of freshly transmuted dirt that Mustang had moved, and the small headstone Al had made, it all seemed just a little too real.

Ed could picture it like this, his friends and family gathered around the gaping mouth of his own grave, dropping a wildflower on his casket before burying him, dirt and mud swallowing him into the dark earth.

He shook the thought away.

All four of them stared at the grave and no one said anything for a long time, save Winry's quiet sobs. Ed held her hand but felt like he was completely inadequate to give her comfort, considering it would soon be him under a pile of dirt and stone.

Nothing like a funeral to hit you in the face with your own pending mortality.

"She was a good dog," Al offered, his voice thick as he placed a comforting hand on Winry's shoulder. Winry just sniffled in acknowledgement, running a hand under her leaking eyes.

Mustang stood behind Ed's wheelchair, somehow managing to appear like he had just as much of a right to be there as any of them, despite hardly knowing the dog. Ed wasn't sure if he found it annoying or comforting, but regardless, he was starting to feel a bit claustrophobic for some reason, like everyone was standing just a bit too close, and the headstone was too close, and he wanted to stand up and walk away, but he didn't currently have the ability to do that.

He wanted to stay there for Winry, but he also didn't want to be anywhere near that grave.

At some point his vision started tunneling, his flesh palm slick with sweat. He could hear his pulse pounding a steady staccato in his head, going fast enough to be careening its way toward a panic attack.

"Fullmetal and I are going to head back," Mustang said, placing a steadying hand on Ed's shoulder. His warmth was solid against his subtle shaking, but his voice sounded far away, muffled by the ringing in Ed's ears. "I doubt the chill in the air is good for him."

Winry didn't look at them, just nodded. Al's eyes narrowed in understanding, but he didn't comment on it. "I'll see you at the house."

Ed nodded, taking a breath he hoped didn't come across as a gasp.

Mustang steered him down the pathway, out toward the beaten dirt road. The farther they travelled from the grave, the looser Ed's chest became and the easier he could breathe, his heartrate slowly evening out into something more comfortable and less violent.

The wheelchair bounced over the rough lane, causing Ed no small amount of discomfort, but he would rather this than be back there, staring at that pile of dirt. The sun beat down on them merrily, a contrast to the brisk wind that threatened to bite through the three blankets Mustang and Al had smothered him in before leaving that afternoon. It didn't take much for Ed to get cold these days.

Ed was worse now, even from last week. He knew for a fact that alkahestry was keeping him alive, and he needed it four times a day to maintain his pain levels— which were on the higher side—and as long as he didn't have any major fits, he was on the receiving end of a blood transfusion every other day. His digestive system was about as good as before, but that only meant he'd gone another week without keeping much down. He would have bet that he'd lost another eight pounds or so, and though that didn't sound like much, he'd overheard the doctor telling Al that Ed's inability to keep food down might kill him faster than gangrene, or any of the other grotesque options Ed had predicted.

Ed wasn't allowed to walk anymore, but he knew he couldn't have, even if he'd wanted to.

He'd tried. Yesterday, he attempted to get himself from his bed to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and had barely gotten past the nightstand before his legs shook and collapsed, folding under him like a baby deer's. He'd tried to get up, but he didn't even have the strength to pull himself upright with his automail arm and laid there until Mustang came in to check on him two hours later. His pride was still stinging from the incident and the consequential tongue-lashing Mustang had given him.

Another highlight in Ed's reel of embarrassing situations he'd found himself in over the past few months.

Still, even Ed could admit he was thankful it had been Mustang that found him, and he was grateful Mustang had seen his distress before Winry or Al had and taken him away before he had a panic attack or something right there at the funeral.

_Ugh,_ he really hated being indebted to Mustang for anything.

"Better?" Mustang asked after a while.

Ed fought back a snide remark. The Idiot Colonel did him a favor, after all. "Peachy."

"When did you start speaking fluent hick? I could have sworn you were relatively well educated when I picked you up years ago."

"Have you always been fluent in stupid?" Ed bit back. " _'Peachy,'_ is a perfectly acceptable word used frequently in both lower- and high-class societies all throughout the East, starting in the 1870s –"

"So either I'm talking to a country bumpkin, or a university professor of history? Where do you keep this useless trivia?"

"They don't call me a genius for nothing."

"I always thought it was sort of an irony thing, like naming a hairless cat Fluffy."

"Speaking of hairless, I thought it fair to warn you that I replaced all of your shampoo with potassium thioglycolate and water."

"I might be afraid if I knew what that was for."

"Hair removal. Let's see if Hawkeye will kiss you now."

Ed wasn't sure which part of that last statement got him, but he thought he heard Mustang choke a bit, and the wheelchair lurched dangerously to one side before Mustang corrected it.

"We— _I_. . . Riza—I mean, _the Captain_ and I . . . it's not like—"

"Save it for someone that might believe you, Mustang," Ed advised, feeling a bit more chipper than he had in a while. Getting Mustang was always a morale booster.

"Has it every occurred to you that I could just leave you out here and keep walking?" Mustang finally bit out, enough steel in his voice to construct a cotton ball.

"Eh, Al would kill you," Ed said easily, propping an elbow on the armrest. "You're no match for him."

"It might be worth it," Mustang grumbled under his breath.

The conversation was a bit more pleasant after that, though Ed would never admit it aloud. They talked about weather, argued over who would win in a fight, Izumi or Hawkeye, and fell into a comfortable silence as Mustang rolled Ed's chair up the ramp Al had set up and to the front door.

And both might have let out an undignified squeak when the front door flew open.

"I was getting worried."

_"Captain!"_ Mustang yelped.

"Hawkeye!" Ed squeaked.

Hawkeye's shrewd sherry eyes ran over them both, the way she might have surveyed a field looking for threats. They lingered over Ed a beat longer, probably seeing every secret he'd kept since she'd seen him last, right down to the large piece of breakfast he was supposed to eat that morning but had slipped to Cat instead, with Al being none the wiser.

"Why is he out there like this?" she demanded, her sharp gaze pinning Mustang. "He is not in any condition to leave the house."

Ed could practically feel Mustang melting behind him. "We were at the Rockbell house," he said in defense.

Ed hadn't recovered from the surprise enough to be annoyed that he had another spectator to his situation, but he _had_ recovered enough to relish the joy of Mustang's certain demise at Hawkeye's hands. "Yeah, Mustang. What were you thinking?"

Her eyes leveled on Ed's, sending a thrill of real fear down his spine. "We both know you would not have gone if you hadn't asked him to take you."

Ed gulped. "You're right, Captain," he agreed. "My mistake."

"Get in, before you catch your death," she ordered, standing aside to allow them passage.

They hadn't been out for more than a couple of hours, but already Hawkeye had taken it upon herself to tidy up the living room and kitchen, the smell of fresh bleach and lemons thick in the air. The windows had been opened, allowing the clean spring air to ruffle the curtains and carry out the stench of sickness Ed had hardly noticed until it was gone.

As efficient as ever, she marched around the room, closing windows while Mustang helped Ed unwrap from two of his blankets. Ed couldn't quite get over how normal she looked, there in his house. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen her out of uniform, and her gray slacks and blue blouse made her look more domestic than Ed was comfortable with, like seeing your elementary teacher outside of the school house.

"Where is Alphonse?" Hawkeye asked.

"Still at the Rockbell's," Mustang answered. "When did you get here? I wasn't expecting you yet."

_"Yet?"_ Ed demanded, suddenly plenty annoyed. "You invited her?"

Mustang had the decency to look sheepish. "I thought she could be of help—"

"What gives you the right to just go inviting people into my house?!" The demand was punctuated with a wet cough, and Ed forced his breathing to calm. He did _not_ want to do this in front of Hawkeye.

Ed's sudden restraint was not lost on Mustang. "I think it's time for your treatment."

Ed's temper hit its flashpoint, because it was a lot easier to be angry than to be embarrassed, and why was he being so obvious about it, with Hawkeye right there?! "It's fine! Get lost!" Ed pushed his chair forward, narrowly missing Mustang's toes as he made for his room.

He almost bowled straight into Havoc. "Whoa!" the blond man cried, almost losing the pile of linens in his arms and the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips as he danced back. "Slow down, Chief!"

_"Great,"_ Ed snarled, his chest contracting painfully enough to make him wince, but not enough to take his mind off of his anger. "Just _great_. Who else is here?"

"Well, Fuery and Falman went into town to get some supplies, and Breda is in your kitchen," Havoc informed.

"Hey, Ed!" Breda's voice called cheerily.

"Unbelievable," Ed hissed, staring at the floor to avoid accidentally igniting Havoc's cigarette with the power of his glare. He smothered a bloody cough in his blanket before rolling forward.

Them seeing him like this was bad enough; in a wheelchair, a ghost of a human being. Ed was not going to let them watch him cough up a lung, or throw up his insides, or get an alkahestry treatment like a sick dog.

Was it too much to want to be remembered the way he used to be?

He wasn't able to slam the door with any force, but getting it shut behind him was victory enough.

XxXxX

"That could have gone better," Breda commented, drying his hands with a cup towel.

"You could say that," Roy sighed. This was not the way he had wanted this to go. Maybe he should have prepared Ed for this instead of springing it on him? But he hadn't been expecting them until Saturday. Riza was a pleasant surprise, but everyone else was overwhelming to him. He really couldn't blame Ed for being upset. "Why are you here so early? Is this everyone?"

"I tried to call, but apparently an electrical storm took a line down between here and Central and it is still being repaired," Riza explained. "We came early to help prepare. I doubt you and the boys have enough time to cook or clean before everyone arrives."

Roy hadn't even thought about food for the gathering, but they were certainly falling behind on laundry. Ed was bloodying up clothes and linens faster than Roy or Al could clean them.

All the same, and as much comfort as her presence brought to him, Roy wasn't sure if he wanted Riza to be the one cooking. His face must have said as much, because Riza sighed. "Don't worry, Sir. Breda will handle the cooking."

Havoc chuckled. "Yeah Captain, one sampling of your cooking was enough for me, too."

"I believe there was a load of laundry you were tending to?" she said pointedly, the threat in her voice apparent.

"Yes, Sir," Havoc answered crisply, following Breda back into the kitchen with his pile of bloodied towels.

The two men started a quiet conversation over the running of water. Roy and Riza looked at one another for a moment.

"What do you think?" he asked finally, not really wanting to hear the answer, but needing to hear it the same, to have someone else besides Al acknowledge what they both saw.

She held his gaze, but he saw the fear swimming there, just behind the surface. "It's bad. It doesn't look like him at all."

He nodded. "Yeah. He would typically be screaming at this point."

Riza's lip quirked in a sad smile before levelling into a grimace. "There's blood everywhere in this house," she said, eying a dull red stain smeared across a sofa cushion.

Roy sighed, circles and equations he was intimately familiar with by now summoned to the forefront of his mind. He clapped his hands, gently pressing his fingertips into the fabric, and watched as the blood separated itself from the material in a wash of blue light and sharp ozone, leaving a pile of rust-colored dust to be cleaned later.

"Maybe when Al comes back, he'll be a bit more cooperative," Roy said, though he doubted it very much. Ed desperately needed a treatment, before his pain and nausea got the better of him, but Roy wasn't sure if he would accept Roy's help before he was bent over a trash bin. "Did you bring what I asked for?"

Riza gestured to a large messenger bag in the corner, buckles neatly clipped and containing more paperwork than Roy typically wanted to see outside of a fireplace. "I'm not sure I understand why you are requesting paperwork, Sir."

"Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf?" he suggested.

She arched a delicate eyebrow.

"I'll let you know before I do anything stupid."

She still looked unconvinced, but the tightness in her jaw relaxed a bit. "I would appreciate that, Sir."

He offered her a thin smile, but his next comment was forestalled by Breda's worried voice. "Hey, Boss? Is that . . . normal?"

Roy stopped, suddenly aware of the sound of retching from Fullmetal's room, and his heart sank. "We'll discuss this later." Without waiting for her response, he snatched the familiar jar of white paint from the kitchen bar and headed for the oldest Elric's room.

He didn't bother knocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Why am I so bad at updating over here :') Sorry about that!
> 
> Look at me, updating my fics twice in one year. Who says I'm not consistent? xD
> 
> I haven't had a chance to reply to reviews, but I will do so for the signed comments of the last chapter as soon as I have some consistent WiFi :')
> 
> Well, let me tell you, this Covid-19 business has been fun, hasn't it? (Please note the sarcasm). Just like any self-respecting introvert, I don't mind a good quarantine, but I wish it wasn't under these circumstances. I don't think we've had any confirmed cases in my area, but hospitals are gearing up for it. It really sank in for me this past Thursday when I stopped by the nursing home to visit my hospice patient and saw all the signs and the locked door.
> 
> If you're feeling particularly worried, I listened to a great podcast today called "Cleaning Up the Mental Mess," (her most recent episode) and she had some encouraging things to say on the subject, if anyone needs encouragement.
> 
> There's always been pain and suffering in the world, but it being something this widespread and in such a mutual way somehow lends the situation more gravitas. We're in this together. As much as possible, take peace and breathe. There's a lot of fear out there where there should only be caution. Safely check-in on the elderly and neighbors, share a roll of toilet paper, and take heart. Darkness doesn't last forever.
> 
> If you would, please leave a comment, and I'll see you next chapter :)
> 
> God Bless,  
> -RainFlame


	10. Chapter 10

Ed watched the slow drip of Al's blood in the bag over his head, watching as the bright fluid pooled into the tube and made its way into his hand.

His fit yesterday had done a lot of damage, apparently. Al had already given him a bag of blood last night, along with a saline solution, and here he was on his second bag in twenty-four hours. At this rate he was going to drain Al dry.

As for his physical symptoms, today, he felt like he'd been hit by a train. A big train. With teeth.

Regardless, he was tired of sitting and doing absolutely nothing, but he was too tired to attempt anything much. He eyed the thick tome sitting on the side table, the one he'd been working on for the past couple of days in between naps. It looked just a bit too heavy for him to reach out and grab. He sighed and stared out at the sloping meadow in front of him and wrapped the blankets tighter around his shoulders. Sitting in his rocking chair out on the deck was as good of a place to be stuck as any, he supposed.

At least he was out of the house and away from Mustang's team.

After having some time to think about it, Ed decided that he was kind of glad to see them, he just didn't want to be seen _by_ them . . .

It was complicated.

No one had bothered to explain why they were here, past them having some leave and wanting to visit. Ed didn't completely buy that, but he didn't have any other ideas as to why they'd all drop in, except maybe to see him one more time. At least Al was happy, though. He'd spent the better part of yesterday evening at Mustang's insistence catching up with their old friends while Ed spent most of it bent over the trash bin or asleep with Mustang to babysit him.

Now, Hawkeye was worried about "the excitement having a negative effect on his health." She'd tried to send him to his room to take his transfusion and a nap, but this was _his_ house, and he wasn't about to let the woman boss him around in his own home.

So, he had meekly requested that he be allowed to take his transfusion out on the deck, and breathed a sigh of relief when she not only acquiesced, but didn't shoot him either.

The only thing that might have a "negative effect on his health" around here was her putting a bullet in his head.

At least Al got a break, which to Ed's understanding, was the whole point of Mustang being here anyway. Even if he had to put up with the Idiot Colonel—Idiot _Brigadier General_ , whatever— it was worth it, he supposed, for Al to have a break. Ed hadn't been exactly easy to take care of, admittedly.

His eyes slid over to Mustang, sitting in the rocker next to him. The older man was balancing a book on one knee and an unmarked journal on the other, deep in thought as he scribbled away at something.

"What are you even doing?" Ed asked, unfairly annoyed because Mustang had the energy for research, and he didn't.

"Just a theory," Mustang replied absently, scribbling through something he'd just written and trying again.

"A theory on what?"

"Something."

"You are so annoying," Ed groaned through his raw throat. "What are you even doing out here? Can't you—" he took a breath, "—be annoying somewhere else?" Ed didn't like the way a long sentence left him panting today. Clearly his lung capacity wasn't what it used to be.

Mustang didn't even look up at him. "Deep down, I think you enjoy my company."

Ed snorted, choked on a coughed, then agreed. "Yeah, like I'd enjoy a root canal."

"I didn't realize you were a masochist."

"I must be. I'm still sitting here with you."

Mustang chuckled and kept writing.

Ed rolled his eyes before closing them for a moment. Then he looked at the book beside him and reached out a hand. His arm shook and his fingers trembled as he weakly grasped at the spine, fingers walking it toward him before he lost his tenuous grip and had to put his arm down to rest, the effort leaving his muscles shaking and lungs panting.

This was completely pathetic. Just how much blood had he lost, anyway?

A long arm reached in front of him, grabbing the book and depositing its weight gently in his lap.

Ed looked up at Mustang. "I had that," he said dully.

Mustang stared at him, his dark eyes hard to read. "Yeah, I know." He stepped back, lowering himself in his rocker again.

Ed shifted in his chair, wincing as a pain from his port raced up his leg. Then he opened the book to his bookmarked page and tried to read.

But now he couldn't because Mustang was staring.

He looked up, gold meeting black. _"What?"_

"Nothing," Mustang said. "Just thinking."

"Anything you want to fill me in on?"

"That's not a medical alchemy book."

Ed shifted the book in his lap. It was a book of alchemical theories in physics, and Mustang was too perceptive. "Very sharp, Mustang. And here I wasn't sure," a breath, "you could read."

"Reading for pleasure now?" His voice wasn't accusatory, but there was a disappointment there that Ed didn't like.

"Maybe I just need a break. From all that medical stuff."

A pause.

"I see."

His tone grated on Ed, sharp and guilt-inducing, even though Ed was sure that wasn't what the old man meant. Maybe it was his own conscience getting in the way. "Look," he said into the silence. "I'm . . . I'm tired."

The words tasted like ash on his tongue.

Mustang didn't say anything. He just waited, dark eyes patient, journal and book forgotten on the table at his side.

"If I'm dying, I'd like to do some things I enjoy while," another breath, "I can still enjoy them."

Mustang nodded, his eyes leaving Ed to stare out at the surrounding fields. "I understand, Edward. You don't have to explain it to me."

Mustang's silence ate at him like acid.

He wouldn't be able to read now if he'd wanted to.

He stifled a groan. "Let's take a walk."

Mustang side-eyed him, pale lips pursed. "You mean _me_ take a walk and you come along for the ride?"

"Same thing."

"After your transfusion."

"It's good enough," Ed insisted, yanking the needle from his bruised hand in one rough motion.

That managed to get Mustang to his feet. "Don't do that!" he admonished, plucking the needle from Ed's grip. "Alphonse is going to kill you if you keep doing that."

Ed rolled his eyes. "He'll have to wait his turn." Mustang's expression narrowed, like he wasn't quite ready for Ed to be so blasé about the whole affair. Ed didn't really care. "Hurry it up, or I'll die waiting on you."

It took Mustang about four centuries to put away his materials and Ed's transfusion equipment, grab a bag of medical supplies he deemed "necessary," tell everyone they were stepping out—to Hawkeye's bitter disapproval, no doubt—, then actually come back with his wheelchair. When they finally reached the end of the pathway to the dirt road, Ed told Mustang to take a right.

The chair jolted and bounced, and he winced. His body felt like it was being torn apart and soldered back together with hot metal and nails, atrophied muscles and damaged organs reacting to every bump and rock in the dusty road.

But this would be worth it.

Ed wasn't sure why, but somehow the spring day seemed more vibrant when he moved through it. Resembool may have been a backwater town in the middle of nowhere, but no one could argue that it wasn't beautiful this time of year. The meadows were alive with buzzing insects, dragonflies chasing each other through the grasses, a pair of butterflies floating lazily across their path. Flowers waved in the cool breeze, and Ed thought he could smell another afternoon storm coming in the humid air. A flock of sheep grazed in the distance, little blurs of cotton white flicking their nubby tails as they mowed the pasture down.

He could be content with this. If he didn't stop to think too hard about what the future would hold and how short it probably would be, he could see his family and his friends and be happy with this. This is what he had fought for. He fought for Al to have a future and the people he loved to be safe. Even if moving hurt and breathing more so, this was enough, and he could endure it for a few more weeks.

"Are we just out to enjoy the view?" Mustang asked from behind.

"And the silence," Ed said. "which you're ruining."

"You should have thought about that before asking me to go on a walk with you."

"Shut up and go pick some of those flowers over there," Ed sighed, pointing to patch of blue cornflowers growing right off the shoulder.

Mustang stopped rather abruptly.

"You want me . . . to go pick flowers?"

"That's right."

Mustang seemed to be thinking very hard, or maybe he'd had a stroke and stopped thinking entirely. Ed turned his head just to be sure. Mustang was staring at the flowers, but otherwise not moving.

Stroke it was.

"Mustang, I'd do it myself if I could," Ed groused. "I want thirty."

With a lot of hesitation and no small amount of bemusement, Mustang left Ed in the middle of the road and crossed the small ditch, gingerly stepping through the grass to reach the cluster of plants.

"I didn't wear the right shoes for this," he informed, stooping down and plucking a single bloom from its narrow stem.

"You are so pretentious," Ed sighed. "Longer stems, Mustang."

Mustang rolled his eyes but complied. "Why the sudden fascination with the flora? Is this one of your quaint little backwoods hobbies?"

"Maybe I just like blue."

"You like red."

"I'm flattered that you've been paying attention," Ed snarked back.

He would be remiss if he didn't at least acknowledge to himself that he enjoyed this. His pride would never let him admit it aloud, but this back-and-forth banter—an art form really—was sometimes fun. It was a small thing he would miss, if there was anything past death.

He looked at Mustang as he put his own pride on hold to get flowers for Ed, broad shoulders, black hair and a sharp wit, up to his neck in the tall grass, the shades of green striping the pallor of his face and the gray of his collared shirt.

In many ways, Mustang had been the father figure the Elrics had been lacking for so long. Ed would have stabbed anyone who would dare mention it to his face as a kid, but now . . . he was thankful. Ed knew he wasn't the easiest to get along with—and Mustang probably had the gray hairs to prove it—but Mustang had, in essence, saved them. If it weren't for Mustang taking a risk on him in the beginning, sheltering him and steering him in the right direction as an adolescent in the military, and ultimately fighting by his side at the end, Ed wasn't sure if he would have managed to fulfil his promise to Alphonse.

He must really be sick to be entertaining this line of thought.

But as Mustang finally emerged from the brush and deposited the large cluster of flowers in Ed's lap, Ed looked at him and said, "Thanks."

And if the word sounded heavier than it should have to Mustang, the older man only stared down at him. After a long pause, his lip quirked. "Don't mention it. Ever."

XxXxX

Roy didn't realize they had been heading to the graveyard until they crested the hill.

No one seemed to visit the dead in the middle of the afternoon, save a flock of birds roosting in the tall trees. A soft breeze ruffled the grass among the tombstones, the marble resembling gray islands against green and gold waves. It was peaceful, as graveyards should be with the dead slumbering in their resting places below, quiet and still.

Roy didn't want to go anywhere near it.

But for all of Ed's fear of even looking at Den's grave yesterday, it seemed these covered resting places held a peace for him, too. Ed grunted a quiet, "hurry up," and Roy hesitantly rolled the chair through the open gate. At Ed's request, they turned right and headed down the path until they came to a small hill.

"Wait."

Roy stopped, surprised at the sudden order. He looked down, the top of Ed's golden head gazing up the easy slope.

"Ed?"

Ed didn't answer immediately, though Roy was sure he heard him. He just watched the hilltop for a moment, then shivered, pulling his blankets tighter around him as he took a rasping breath. "Okay."

Roy decided not to comment on the odd pause and pushed Ed up the slope. "You're still heavy," he grunted, even though Ed was not heavy at all, it was just the wheels catching on the uneven path. In fact, pushing Ed around was like pushing a child. Roy wouldn't have been surprised if the automail leg comprised a third of his weight at this point.

"You're still an idiot," Ed replied smoothly, then coughed hard into his hand.

He kept coughing, finally pulling out a stained handkerchief to catch the blood, shoulders heaving as he strained to breathe between gasps.

Roy stopped, wanting to help but unable to do anything short of alkahestry. He reached into the bag at his hip, pulling out a small vial of white paint, but Ed waved him off weakly with his free hand. Finally, the coughing slowed, and only then did Roy feel comfortable enough to put the vial away. He waited maybe ten minutes for Ed to settle, then offered him a drink from the jar of water in his bag before continuing along the path.

At the top of the hill, there was a small space separated from the rest of the graves, a unit with only two headstones. Roy wasn't sure, but it could have been Ed's body language that told him to stop in front of them.

Trisha Elric, 1878-1904.

Van Hohenheim Elric, -1916.

They stared in silence, something cold coiling in Roy's gut.

Slowly, in halting, uncomfortable moves, Ed leaned forward, separating the bouquet of cornflowers neatly into two. He placed them on the graves with a gentleness rare for Edward, then he sat back and stared.

Roy wasn't sure how long they were there, standing in the silence. Eventually, he took a seat in the grass beside Ed, at Hohenheim's feet. The shadows began to stretch across the fields and rows as the sun moved, inching closer to the horizon. The cold feeling in Roy's stomach eased into a quiet foreboding, and his eye kept being drawn to the space on the other side of Trisha Elric's grave.

This wasn't fair and it wasn't right. Roy was Ed's elder by at least seventeen years. Roy shouldn't have to watch Ed be buried; it was supposed to be the other way around.

Roy _refused_ to watch Ed be buried.

"That's my spot," Ed said quietly. Roy jarred from his thoughts, looking to see Ed pointing to the place he had been staring at. It was too bare and too quiet of a place for Edward Elric. "Turns out Hohenheim bought six plots. I don't know why six, but," he took a breath in the middle of his sentence, something he'd been doing a lot of today, "Al and I decided that whoever died first got to be next to Mom."

The cold feeling condensed into ice. Roy had been trying very hard to keep any sort of resentment or grief from Ed. He didn't feel like expressing it was fair when the younger man was suffering, and the doctor had warned that any additional stress would only make his condition decline faster.

"Congratulations," he said, hoping the edge that had creeped into his voice showed as irony and not despair.

Ed gave a wheezy laugh that ended in a cough.

And if Ed noticed a bitter tear that Roy quickly scrubbed away before it could make its way to his chin, Ed only looked back to the gravestones and smiled softly. "Let's get out of here."

Roy was only too eager to oblige, getting to his feet, taking the wheelchair by the handlebars and probably taking the hill down a little too quickly.

He wanted as much distance between Ed and that graveyard as possible. He didn't like the finality in Ed's eyes as he looked over his shoulder at his parents' tombstones, like the next time he would be out here it would be in a box and not a chair.

Ed's death was not something Roy was going to sit and watch.

He refused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want the record to show that I updated/posted three fics within a four week span, and two of those were within the same week.
> 
> Take that, all ye doubters.
> 
> Kind of a lull here, but I felt it a necessary lull. Hopefully you don't find it too boring. I found it kind of . . . nice? xD
> 
> I also want folks to know that I am no doctor. I did pass an "Are You a Nurse?" quiz on Facebook yesterday with 100% accuracy, so I'm just as surprised as anyone. If I get medical info wrong, I am deeply sorry :'D I have researched this on the net the best I know how, and then tried to make it work with alchemy/alkahestry, a wound that should have killed him in the first place, the medical technology of the day, then adjusting accordingly. That being said, if anything strikes you as unrealistic because you have some sort of medical knowledge/degree . . . it's because I have no idea what I'm doing :')
> 
> Despite my Facebook quiz results.
> 
> I also suddenly realized I sound like I'm twelve in my A/Ns. I respond to notes with a plethora of smilies and :D and xD and :c and I promise I'm a card-carrying adult. I pay taxes and everything.
> 
> I think I'm in a weird mood tonight. I think this quarantine is finally getting to me :'D
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! If you have the time, drop a review (seriously, they give me life) and I'll see you next time :)
> 
> God Bless,
> 
> -RainFlame


	11. Chapter Eleven

_Warning: Brief mentions of suicidal thoughts._

* * *

Alphonse was thrilled to have their former coworkers in their house, the quiet despair that had soaked into the walls and upholstery levied by familiar jokes and friendly laughter. Fuery gifted them a new record player he'd built from scratch for Ed to listen to, Falman following up with a dozen or so records. Havoc brought with him some sweets from his parents' shop for Al to try, and Breda took a quiet moment to show him how to make a southern delicacy from his hometown.

Al loved it so much that he hated himself for it. What right did he have to be enjoying himself when his brother was suffering?

"Here, like this," Breda said, taking the large knife from Al's hands and rocking it back and forth over the garlic, mincing it much faster than Al could have hoped to. He handed it back to Alphonse and placed another five cloves on the cutting board. "Try it."

Al complied, more hesitantly and with mixed results, the garlic either becoming chopped or pulverized in his inexperienced hands. "Guess I'm not very good at this," he admitted sheepishly.

To be honest, he felt guilty worrying about the food when Breda was able to handle it and he could use the precious energy to research, but he had been working on his theory for several hours that morning, to no avail. He needed the break, as much as he hated taking one. And food was necessary for everyone; Al as much as Ed, the way their blood supply was going. Al only had a few bags left, even with taking his own blood once every week—far from what was considered safe. At this rate, they would be out in the next two days. Al had already requested that Fawn check into finding another supply.

Breda must have interpreted his brooding as having to do with his lack of finesse with a blade. "You'll get it," he encouraged, scraping the garlic onto the knife and into the hot stock pot. It gave an enthusiastic sizzle, spitting oil and the comforting scent of garlic into the air. "I'm sure you didn't exactly do a lot of food preparation these past few years."

Al smirked. "Actually, I did most of it. Ed never complained, so I guess it wasn't awful."

"It was great," Ed agreed, reaching out with a shaky hand to move a pawn away from Falman's knight. Ed had joined them in the kitchen, slumped tiredly in his wheelchair but following their movements with interested gold eyes, even as his and Falman's chess game progressed at the breakfast table.

Ed had been more tired than usual the past three days, the simplest of movements leaving him panting and exhausted. He had bursts of energy an hour or so after he recovered from his alkahestry treatments, and he used the momentum to plow through half a book or journal something furiously before his energy was sapped again and he was reduced to quiet conversation or sleeping. He'd also had a persistent fever for over twenty-four hours, which Al found concerning. Usually he was just feverish in the morning or the evening, but it seemed he couldn't quite shake this one.

Still, he'd seemed to overcome his initial aversion to the team over the past two days, opting to be in the living room or the kitchen until later in the afternoon or evening, when the nausea generally overtook him regardless of how recent his treatments. At that point in time, he'd retreat to his room and stay there until he fell asleep or the threat of public humiliation had passed.

Even though he was tired, he seemed to be having a good day. Al had given him an alkahestry treatment only three hours ago, and though Ed usually lied about how he was feeling, the relaxed eyes and loose shoulders seemed to indicate his pain levels weren't that bad.

Of course, it didn't hurt that Alphonse had slipped a tiny bit of morphine in his saline line that morning when Ed wasn't looking.

Al had watched Ed suffer for years. He'd endured it as a suit of armor, never injured in battle, never succumbing to the elements, but watching his brother deal with cold and injuries and pain as if the universe decided to fling it at him two-fold to make up for Al's lack of sensation. Ed was very much like the cats Al was so fond of, adept at hiding hurt and discomfort so as not to worry his little brother, but Al was adept at reading him like a book. He'd studied that face through years of sleepless nights, days of studying, split seconds of life-or-death decisions. His years in the armor had taught him to see.

Al knew his brother almost as well as he knew himself, and he knew that he was in a lot of pain.

He felt guilty about going behind his back, sure, but after a phone call with Doctor Fawn that morning, it was a risk he felt worth taking. There were potential complications with his breathing, and Al had enlisted everyone's help in monitoring him to be sure his inhalations were not more suppressed than usual. The doctor had said he would be dropping off an oxygen device as soon as it arrived from East City, and he hoped that it would make him more comfortable regardless.

Al only hoped he could convince his stubborn brother to use it.

"Colonel," Breda greeted.

Everyone looked up as Roy shuffled into the kitchen, hair in disarray and bags under his eyes, wearing the same cobalt shirt from the day before plus a few dozen new wrinkles. Al glanced at the clock and confirmed that it was just past eleven. It was unusual because, for the past few days, they had been taking turns sleeping on a spare sofa they had dragged into Ed's room. After his little stunt earlier in the week where he had been stuck on the floor for two hours trying to make it to the bathroom on his own, they decided it was a good idea to keep an eye on him overnight. It was an exhausting job, as Ed frequently woke up coughing, and once throwing up, and being on duty meant very little sleep.

Last night, it had been Al's turn, so why did Roy look like he'd been awake all night?

"You look terrible," Breda commented merrily.

Roy spared him a glare, then made for the coffee machine, adding the water and a few liberal scoops of dark granules. Then, he stared impatiently with his thumb and middle finger rubbing together, like he wondered if the water would boil faster with flame alchemy.

"Breda's right," Ed agreed.

"No one asked you," Roy replied irritably, his voice rough with sleep.

Al saw his brother smirk out of the corner of his eye and couldn't help smiling a little bit himself. He wiped his hands on a towel and grabbed a yellow mug from the cabinet above his head, placing it under the Brigadier General's nose.

Roy gave him an appreciative look, then turned his attention to what Breda was doing. "Cooking?" he asked.

"We're making Aerugonian Onion Soup," he supplied. "I think Ed's system can handle it."

Ed made a snorting sound that devolved into a cough. "It can't handle _anything_ , Breda."

It was a sad fact, and Al flinched to hear it.

"If you don't pay attention, you're going to keep losing," Falman cautioned, moving his rook to take Ed's last knight.

"Not going easy on the sick guy, huh?" Ed asked with a scowl, moving his rook to safety.

Roy stepped behind Ed, sharp eyes taking in the field. "You . . . you're a terrible chess player."

Ed did the closest thing to bristling he came to these days. "Excuse _me_ for never having enough free time," he breathed, "to sit around playing board games."

"It's not just a board game, it's a mental exercise."

"I'm not sure it helped you."

Breda snickered and Al thought he saw Falman's lips quirk.

Roy looked at the two men indignantly. "My own men. Thanks for the support."

"My apologies, Sir," Falman stated, the smile gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

"Don't apologize to him," Ed groused. "He deserves every bit of ridicule he gets."

"That's no way to talk to your former superior officer," Roy admonished lightly, picking up Ed's queen between slim fingers and moving her to the side.

"Hey!" Edward protested, but made no move to intervene. Falman countered with his bishop.

"Don't forget," Roy advised, moving Ed's queen again. "Your queen is your most valuable asset."

In four moves, Roy had achieved a checkmate.

"I hate playing with you," Falman said sulkily, resetting the board with its black and white pieces.

Roy chuckled, stepping around Ed and pouring his mug full of steaming coffee. He added a generous spoonful of sugar on top, and as he stirred, his eyes slid up to meet Al's. "A word?"

Al frowned. A word? He didn't protest though, setting down the onion he had been in the process of slicing. "Sure. I'll be right back," he said to Breda.

He followed Roy into the living room, where Hawkeye was furiously scribbling something. Havoc was engaged in conversation with Fuery as he dusted the fireplace mantle, the smaller man fiddling with the record player he had constructed, unsatisfied with some aspect of it.

Everyone looked up as they entered, eyes following them as they went out to the deck outside. Al tried not to feel self-conscious about it. He knew they would watch Ed; he could imagine seeing him in this state was disconcerting, the great Fullmetal Alchemist, now a withered husk. If he hadn't been watching the decline every step of the way, he was sure he would have stared just as much.

He was used to the stares he himself had received in the wake of The Promised Day, his friends in awe that _he_ was what was inside that suit of armor all this time, the face to the voice, but those had died away into an occasional occurrence, something soft and reverent, employed when they thought Al wasn't looking.

Now, they watched him like he might pull a gun.

Al liked to consider himself the sensible of the two brothers. He would be lying to himself if he said he hadn't considered performing the taboo to save his brother, or asking Ling to help with his Philosopher's Stone, but he knew that if he did either of those things, Ed would never forgive him for it. It would be spitting in the face of all the sacrifices they'd made, and he was selfish. He couldn't bear to live the rest of his life with only Ed's scorn for company.

He'd also be lying to himself if he said he wanted to live much past Ed.

Perhaps it was the grief talking, but he wasn't sure how he would survive Ed's death. It wasn't that he was planning to take his own life—far from it, for that would negate everything Ed had done for him—but he wasn't sure what he'd be living for at that point.

"Alphonse, I wanted to enlist your help with something."

Al looked up, watching as Roy sat in the rocker that wasn't Ed's and took a tentative sip of coffee. Finding it too hot, he placed it on the table beside him. Al sat in Ed's chair, feeling his exhaustion weighing on him. "What's that?"

Roy watched him strangely, more so than anyone else had been. It reminded Al of the days right after his sight had been restored, as if taking in Al's appearance for the first time all over again. Then, the look was gone, replaced by a resignation. "We both know that your brother is . . . _difficult_ , to put it mildly."

"Mildly," Al agreed with a small smile.

Roy returned it. "I'm afraid I haven't been honest with you when I told you the team was just visiting to visit."

Al raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"We've planned sort of a soiree for Ed."

Despite a small thrill of excitement at seeing all of their old friends again, Al sighed and thought about all the creative ways Ed would try to kill Roy when he found out. "Great."

"I think, after he finishes trying to kill me, he'll enjoy it," Roy said as if reading Al's thoughts. "As long as he feels well enough for it. Also, we will need him out of the house for most of tomorrow. Think you could talk him into visiting Miss Rockbell?"

It had been two days since they'd buried Den. Al had called her both days, and though she answered, it was clear that she wanted some time alone to process. He could understand that, with the uncomfortable parallels Den's funeral had brought up. Hopefully tomorrow would be different. "I'll call her. I'm sure if I explained what was going on, she'd be more than willing to help." His eyes drifted to the rolling hills. "How many people are we talking about?"

"I think the way you two have made yourselves known around the country and beyond, this will have to be an outside affair."

Ed would love it after he finished hating it.

"I don't think we have any beds or couches left. Or much floorspace, for that matter."

Roy shrugged. "Unnecessary, I think. Maybe you could also talk Miss Rockbell into taking a few into her spare rooms, but most of these people are soldiers. They won't mind sleeping outside for a night. There's also an inn in town, isn't there?"

"Yes. I should probably call Mrs. Beecher to give her a heads up, though. She's never had more than two rooms occupied at the same time," he said with a smile.

Roy nodded, then his eyebrows angled downward, almost imperceptibly, as he gave Al an appraising look. "How are you, Alphonse?"

Al straightened, blinking in surprise, then shook his head. "I don't know," he answered noncommittally. "Tired, I guess."

Roy's eyes narrowed, but he nodded in understanding. "Hmm. Tired doesn't seem to cover it."

Al's lip twisted in a sardonic sort of smile. "No, it doesn't. But you don't look much better."

"But I haven't been donating an excessive amount of blood to the cause."

"Touché."

"Do you regret it?"

Alphonse once again blinked at the older man. Roy stared back with those black eyes, his wind-tossed bangs making them look all the wilder for it. "Regret what?"

"All that you went through. All that you did. You seem to have acquired that particular Elric-brand of misplaced guilt." He smiled like he was joking, but the sharpness in his eyes belied any humor. "You think you're the reason he's in this situation in the first place, because he did it while looking for a way to get your body back. Do you regret all that you and Ed sacrificed to do it?"

Alphonse looked away, stomach twisting as if _he'd_ been the one impaled. How did Roy Mustang do that? Despite the man's carefully-constructed façade of the arrogant, self-absorbed playboy, it seemed that sometimes—or maybe _always_ —he could see straight through Al and his own defenses like they were made of glass.

Did he regret it? Did he regret finally being able to sleep, to taste, to _feel?_ Did he regret the breeze moving across his skin, or the sweet smell of wildflowers in the spring air? Did he regret the scent of home, the thrill of running, or being able to hug his big brother and feel the touch of humanity against his skin?

Did it matter if he did or not? What was done was done, and Al could no more take it back than he could stop the sun from setting.

But maybe . . . maybe he did regret it. He didn't regret getting his body back, but at the same time, he would go back into that suit to spare his brother more suffering. Was that the same thing? He thought Ed losing his alchemy was bad enough, but now he was going to lose his life.

"Edward doesn't regret it," Mustang said.

Al blinked, because his eyes had started to burn. He just nodded his head, afraid if he spoke, his voice would break and then Roy would have his suspicions confirmed.

"Alphonse, Ed doesn't regret it," Roy repeated, more forcibly than the last time. "And he would be angry if you did."

He had a point. If Ed knew, he'd be furious.

But knowing he shouldn't regret it and actually _not_ regretting it were two very separate things.

A weight landed on his shoulder and Al looked up, a few tears spilling from his watery eyes as he did. Roy gripped his arm paternally, squeezing once, then letting the weight settle there. "If I know Fullmetal half as well as I think I do, he's proud of you."

A rough sob wrenched its way from Al's chest.

"And he doesn't regret it."

Al had no idea how badly he needed to hear those words, and he sobbed again, cradling his face in his hands as the tears soaked between his fingers, sticky with salt.

And the whole time, Roy rested his hand on his shoulder and stayed.

XxXxX

Ed felt pretty good for the first time in several days.

Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't completely exhausted and that his body didn't absolutely _hurt_ , but it felt nice for his body not to be hurting in its traditional, comprehensive way.

And it was almost like old times, everyone sitting around the coffee table, afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows, up to their necks in a poker game Ed wasn't able to play outright but could appreciate. Technically he was on Al's team, and despite his best efforts to encourage his little brother from the seat next to him on the couch, Alphonse said he would most definitely _not_ be cheating. Where did he pick up such a straitlaced moral compass? Ed certainly didn't raise him this way.

Falman wasn't allowed to play either, because the older man was fairly adept at counting cards and had been permanently banned from any and all team poker games. He was demoted to dealer, but he did his duty with the crisp perfection he did everything with, only the occasional bite of fresh cookie and sip of milk to ruin the image.

Ed repressed the desire to vomit then and there at the sight of it, opting to look at Havoc as he laid down his hand. "Ha! Four of a kind! Beat that," he crowed, kicking back on the opposite sofa with his cigarette and a smug grin.

He and Al both groaned as Al threw down their three of a kind on the table. Breda and Fuery had wisely folded before that point.

Mustang's pinched brow gave way to a self-satisfied grin. "Straight flush," he said, laying his cards on the table, much to Havoc's dismay. "Sorry, Havoc," he grinned, reaching over and scraping the pile of buttons and coins they had been using as chips to himself.

"Hang on, Sir."

All eyes slid to Hawkeye.

"Royal flush," she announced without much fanfare, displaying her cards in a neat row, ace gleaming at the end. "I believe that means I win."

Breda, Fuery, and Falman cackled, Al snickered, Ed just grinned to keep himself from coughing blood all over the place. Havoc groaned, and Mustang slumped in his seat, sulking like the overgrown child he was. _"Again?"_ he complained as Hawkeye added the 'chips' to her already generous pile.

Really, though, Hawkeye knew the man like the back of her hand. Mustang was the better liar, but if anyone here knew every one of his tells, it was Hawkeye. It really was no surprise she could beat him in a game of deception. Mustang could beat the whole table, and because of that, she just had to beat him.

Ed found it oddly amusing.

"That's what you get," he said around a cough, dabbing at his lips reflexively with his handkerchief. It would do no good for his friends to see him bleed.

Mustang glared at him with a withering irritation. "You lost, too," he pointed out.

" _Al_ lost."

"You were the one that said to stay in!" Alphonse protested.

"What can I say?" he shrugged, the movement pulling at his side. He wasn't sure if he kept the wince off of his face or not. "I don't play as well when my buttons aren't on the line."

Mustang still glowered and sulked, eyeing Hawkeye's chips with longing. "You've beaten me six times, Captain."

"At least the winner buys drinks," Havoc sighed, tipping back his own glass of milk. Ed would never understand how anyone drank that stuff willingly, and why were they playing for milk and not the actual good stuff was beyond him. Ed had never cared for the taste of alcohol, but he would drink lighter fluid over cow juice any day.

"Sure you don't want any?" Breda teased, catching the look Ed had given Havoc's glass.

"Very," Ed assured him, reaching for his glass of orange juice on the table beside him to prove his point. His hands wrapped around it, and he was pleased when he was able to bring it to his lips with a minimal amount of shaking. A low fever leftover from that morning still burned through him, which was odd but, he supposed, not entirely unexpected, and an involuntary shiver shook through his spine, sloshing the juice dangerously.

He didn't miss the way they watched him out of the corner of their eyes, like a small breeze could reduce him to dust if they weren't careful.

And he tried really hard to ignore it because Al seemed to be having a good time for once.

He was actually finding it kind of nice, too, aside from the furtive, concerned glances everyone threw his way when they thought he wasn't looking.

He set the glass down on the side table without spillage, bringing his hand down to rest at his side and panting a bit with the exertion. He'd managed to keep Breda's soup down after lunch; a feat in itself. He didn't want to ruin his own record with too much orange juice, but Al insisted that he try to drink some for his electrolytes, and Ed wasn't in the business of intentionally disappointing Alphonse.

"So, Mustang," he began as Falman dealt another round of cards. "You're being extra secretive recently."

Everyone at the table froze, eyes dragging up from the cards to look at him. Even Al had stopped all movement.

Ed froze too, because he had no idea what had prompted such a reaction.

Mustang's face became a mask of cool passivity faster than anyone's, but it was far too late to curb Ed's suspicions. "I'm not sure what you mean, Fullmetal."

Now Ed was sure, because the only time he'd been using his State Alchemist name recently was when he was trying to be extra bossy, or he was hiding something. "I've seen the piles of paperwork," he said by explanation. "I was just wondering . . . what the status was in Ishval?"

The sudden tension deflated like a punctured balloon. "What is _with_ you guys?" he asked in irritation, smothering a cough in the corner of his blanket. He didn't like being out of the loop.

"I just wanted to follow up on the restoration efforts," Mustang said, the coolness warming just a fraction, like he'd avoided some sort of landmine. Ed's suspicions doubled, but he chose not to comment on it. Yet. "I'm sure you know it's been underway for well over a year now and we are about to reach a few milestones."

Ed knew that the restoration of Ishval was Mustang's personal mission, the way getting Al's body back had been his. It was a deep, personal thing that was wrapped in layers of responsibility and duty so thick as to hide the hot, guilt-ridden force driving it. Ed understood it a little too well.

"We've opened three of the eight districts for resettlement," Fuery informed brightly. "One more will open in the next four months. A lot of people are finally able to move from the ghettos in the East into their homeland."

"We've also subsidized several large farming efforts to jumpstart the economy, and established six trade outposts between East City and Xing," Breda commented, situating his cards into a preferable order. "The Brigadier General is certainly turning the place around."

"Don't be absurd," Mustang admonished. "It was a team effort. I couldn't have done it without my staff."

Ed found the word choice odd. It was still a work-in-progress, so why was he referring to it in the past tense? Maybe it was a slip up.

Or maybe he was just paranoid because they were _all_ _still hiding something_.

"I think it's great that everything has gone so smoothly," Al said with a smile. "Major Miles and Scar seem to have garnered enough support for you to make it an easier transition."

Mustang frowned in discomfort, but Ed wasn't sure if it was because of Al's comment, or the very mention of Scar himself. The man's name always seemed to make Ed flinch, and he knew Mustang wasn't much better. Al knew the scarred Ishvalan better than anyone at the table, but the friendly way he referred to the man that had tried to blow Ed's head off his shoulders was always a bit disconcerting.

"That's not to say our efforts have been without their political setbacks," Hawkeye informed. "But we have been fortunate to avoid any sort of violent retaliation at this point."

Ed noticed the way her eyes slid to Mustang's face, looking for something.

Despite Al's claims that Ed was about as observant as a potted plant, Ed had a knack for picking up on stuff that people didn't want him to pick up on. And he wanted answers.

But any attempt at getting those answers was curbed by a sharp pain in his port, cuing a roiling in his stomach and a familiar, rising nausea in his gut.

He decided he would demand answers later. For now, he would not move in an attempt to not throw up bloodied orange juice all over their card game, and consequentially, thoroughly embarrass himself in front of his friends.

Ed only loosely kept track of the game as Falman dealt another hand, keeping his stomach tamed through sheer willpower. Fuery won a round, and then Mustang finally had a victory after that. Al glanced at him, probably noticing that he'd stopped commenting for the past two games, but Ed kept his eyes firmly on the table, willing his gut to cool it. He was afraid if he spoke, he would lose control over his insides completely, and moving would certainly garner the same results.

Hawkeye won two more rounds before an unprovoked flaring of pain in his side and a familiar, watery sensation in his mouth told him that he only had a few moments to retreat back to his room if he wanted to save face.

He moved a hand toward his wheelchair, then his stomach lurched and he thought the better of it.

"Ed?" Al asked.

He felt every eye turn to him, burning through his skin with the intensity of their gaze. He kept his eyes on the table, unable to look up even if he'd wanted to.

He couldn't move, he couldn't speak, but he really hoped his little brother got the message anyway.

_Get them out of here._

Their Elric Brother Telepathy seemed to be working today, because Al turned to the others. "Would you please wait in the kitchen?" he asked their friends, standing, and Ed clenched his jaw as the couch jostled beneath him. His port and side protested greatly, and he saw stars for a brief moment.

Ed could see them exchange puzzled looks out of the corner of his eye, then one by one, they stood, leaving their cards on the table.

Ed would have sighed in relief, but he threw up instead.

Blood and bile sloshed over the table, knocking half of Al's cards to the ground in the wave. There was way too much blood, his mind noted dully. More than usual. What had been in that soup? Ed's side clenched hard, spasming and driving a strangled cough from his chest that might have sounded more like a scream if there had been less fluid. He doubled over, more blood dribbling and bursting from his lips, more sliding from his side and between his fingers.

Great.

It felt like his insides were fighting to be on the outside. Something deep in his belly tore, and another scream was drowned in a tide of blood.

He was only vaguely aware of muted shouts over his head, everything sounding far away. He wrenched his eyes open, another choking scream seizing in his throat, lungs burning for air but only getting blood. Hands were all over him, and he had no idea when he'd been flattened across the coffee table, but he was aware that Mustang was holding his shoulders down while Al was screaming about there being too much blood.

He didn't know what it meant and guessed it didn't matter. He instinctively curled in on himself, anything to stop the bright hot pain, to dull it, but another pair of hands had his ankles, leaving him twitching and spasming on his back like a dying beetle, fighting weakly as more blood sputtered from his lips.

Teacher had told him once that the world was pain. He was pretty sure there had been some cheery, optimistic sentiment tacked to the end of it, but that was the only part he could recall. It seemed to be a fitting statement, at the moment.

Alkahestry flashed, and with it, a lessening of pain.

But this time, the difference was like being stabbed with twenty daggers and some kind soul removing four of them.

"It's not working!" Al's panicked voice reached through his own panicked haze. "He's still bleeding!"

Why wasn't it working?

 _"Breathe, Ed!"_ Mustang screamed.

Ed didn't realize he'd stopped. He tried to inhale, but it was like drowning. His chest felt like a stone had settled on top of it, heavy and unmoving, and a terrible pressure was building in his head. His stomach clenched, liquid sloshing and spilling from his mouth like an overfilled cup.

_"Again, Al!"_

Another flash, a slight lessening of pain.

But by that time, the pain was familiar, flooding his senses and encompassing him so completely that he wasn't sure where he ended and it began.

He wasn't sure at what point he stopped breathing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, things got worse. As things tend to do.
> 
> BUT, some much needed Mustang and Al bonding time, and some Team Mustang to bring life to my cold, dead heart.
> 
> I put on makeup for the first time in half a century today because I was going to record a congratulatory graduation video for a friend (her dad is throwing together a compilation video for her), and I have forgotten some very important, basic lifeskills. Like, for instance, how does one go about assembling a matching outfit? Are pants with elastic actually considered "acceptable?" Does the mascara go in your eyelashes or your eyebrows?
> 
> So I just put a graduation cap on my stuffed penguin and did a voiceover instead.
> 
> That's quarantine, baby.
> 
> Now I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go. Maybe I'll go sit on my front porch and stun my neighbors when they see me in something other than shorts and haven't-looked-at-my-hairbrush-in-days hair.
> 
> If you have the time, please drop a comment (seriously, I'm extrinsically motivated) and I'll see you next chapter :)
> 
> God Bless,  
> -RainFlame


	12. Chapter Twelve

It took two alkahestry treatments to stop the bleeding.

Why did it take two alkahestry treatments to stop the bleeding?

During the process of cleaning Ed up, they found an infection had taken hold at his port. Al didn't understand why the alkahestry hadn't cleared it up, unless Ed's system just had nothing left to fight with. Fawn had no idea if that is what caused the violent reaction, but Ed had also had a midday fever, which was unusual in and of itself. Fawn had speculated that it could have been related, or his illness was merely progressing, but either way, the leg had to go. This, however, presented them with a catch twenty-two.

The alkahestry had, no doubt, sapped any energy Ed had left. In such a fragile state, and after so much blood loss, going into surgery to remove the port would undoubtably put Ed's life at risk.

But if they waited, with his weakened immune system and his regular fits, the infection could easily make its way to his heart in a matter of days if it hadn't already, killing him just as thoroughly as bleeding out.

And with Ed lying motionless in bed and seven pairs of eyes drilling into Al's soul, Al hoped he made the right decision.

Havoc, Falman, Roy and Al all helped load Ed's lifeless form into Fawn's horse drawn cart to deliver him to Rockbell Automail, swathed in blankets and a third bag of blood held over his head by Falman to try to stabilize him en route. It was Al's last bag. Winry already had an operating theater prepped and ready, and with Fawn's assistance, they took him in to remove the leg, the port, and clean the remaining stump.

And sitting outside in the hall, Al was reminded of the night they tried to bring their mother back. It was similar; the despair filling his hollow chest, the cold fear seeping into his very soul as his brother sat in the room behind him, bleeding out. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear it raining, wind whipping through the great oak out front and lightening crashing through the skies as Granny Pinako called for more towels—

"Al?"

He blinked open his eyes, surprised to see Roy staring down at him. Actually, they were all staring at him, Falman and Havoc looking on with drawn expressions and bleak eyes, Roy's mouth pressed together in a grimace. Al wondered if he looked like a suit of armor, unmoving and cold, in the same house Roy had found them in all those years ago.

"Did I . . . Is this the right thing?" he asked, his voice a bare whisper.

He wanted to throw up himself. Was this because he had given him morphine that morning? Would Ed have made this decision? What would he do right now, if their situations were reversed? Would he have sent Al in there for a surgery that may or may not prolong his life, but would prolong his suffering?

"You've made the best decision you could with the information you had," Roy promised. "It's the decision Ed would have made."

Hearing it voiced took the barest of edges off of the suffocating anxiety that clutched his heart.

"Here."

Havoc shoved a glass of juice into Al's hands. It was only then that he noticed he was shaking, breathing just a little too quick, his heart pounding in his ears. He took the glass and tossed it back, downing it all in three gulps.

He coughed, then shuddered, staring at the glass and wondering if Winry had anything stronger.

XxXxX

Alphonse wasn't much aware of what went on outside of his brother's room.

He sat, and researched, and read, and stared.

Time went by.

Winry came in to check on Ed, and sometimes she stayed. Sometimes she started crying and left. Al felt too empty to cry, so he researched some more.

Roy came in at some point during the day, his face hollowed like he'd forgotten what sleep was. The small window at the side hinted at it being sometime late evening, and Roy wordlessly offered him a bowl of soup before taking the seat Winry had just vacated a while ago. Al set the bowl on the table beside him and joined Roy in staring at Ed.

He looked like a ghost, pale and lifeless, the white bedsheets swallowing his wasted frame like water embraces the drowned, sinking and pooling where his left leg should have been. His eyes were sunken in, the skin on his face taught and papery, his dull hair spilling limply on the pillow. Tubes snaked around the bed, disappearing under the covers, a blood bag donated by a stranger hanging over his head, desperately trying to drip life into a dying body. A glass mask had been secured to his face, and his breath puffed against it, easier than it had been before Fawn had placed it over his nose and mouth. The oxygen therapy seemed to be helping.

Fawn didn't expect him to wake up from this soon, but Ed was stubborn, so Al hoped.

Al turned back to his books, because somewhere, there had to be an answer. Alkahestry had to have the answer.

He was only faintly aware of Roy staring, first at Ed, then at him, then back to Ed.

Then he got up and left, too.

The soup sat on the table and went cold.

XxXxXx

The party had been delayed until the next Saturday, another week off, but Roy wasn't sure if it was foolish to hold out hope that Ed would be in a better position by then.

Would it be a party, or a wake?

Everything was up in the air, everyone waiting with bated breath to see when it would all come crashing down around their ears.

Fawn wasn't sure when—or, after Roy pressed, _if—_ he'd wake up. He'd said Ed was very weak, his system on a knife's edge, and only Ed would be able to decide if he was going to pull through this latest hurdle.

And Roy was almost done. Doctor Marcoh would arrive soon, and Roy just needed a few more days after that, and he needed Ed to hold out that long.

But Ed was stubborn, so Roy hoped.

XxXxX

Ed woke up two days later, sometime around midnight.

Al hadn't left his room except to take care of basic needs, but on one such occasion, he'd come back in to find Ed looking at the ceiling, the oxygen mask pulled from his face and resting on the pillow beside him. His golden eyes were glassy with fever, rimmed with exhaustion and a dull pain, and he had a hand wrapped around the stump of his left thigh, idly thumbing the bandages under the thick covers.

An oppressive weight lifted from Al's shoulders at the sight. Ed was awake.

He wasn't done yet.

"It's gone," Ed said simply, his voice a faint rasp. Al would have missed the words if he hadn't been staring at him and seen his lips move.

Al chose not to address that for now. "Do you want some water?"

Ed closed his eyes and nodded.

Al helped him sit up, worried to note that Ed didn't help in the process very much, despite his effort. He stuffed a few spare pillows around his brother's rail-thin frame, horrified at just how devastatingly _skeletal_ he was. It was getting hard to tell just which one of them had been wasting away on the other side of the Gate for over four years.

Al grabbed a glass Winry had left by his bedside and lifted it to Ed's lips. His brother raised a hand as if to help, but it shook hard and Ed let it fall to his side.

Sometimes, it was the little things that were the hardest to watch.

Ed finished, then sat heavy against the pillow panting, half-lidded gold eyes staring vacantly around the room. "How long . . . was I out?" His voice was stronger now, but Al's fingers itched to put the mask back over his face. He breathed a lot easier with it.

"Two days," _and then some,_ Al added to himself.

Ed nodded, turning his head to cough away from Al, the sound harsh and grating in the quiet room. He turned back with blood on his lips. "Can't keep sleeping . . . my life away like this."

Al thought it was supposed to be a joke, but he didn't really find it funny. He smiled anyway, setting the glass down. "You're right," he agreed, reaching over with a tissue to wipe the red away.

Ed looked annoyed but didn't move to stop him. "What day is it?"

"Technically Monday," Al supplied.

"Where's my leg?"

Al winced, but tried to school his expression into something more neutral. "There was an infection. They had to take out the whole thing, I'm sorry."

There was a sadness in his eyes that Al found hard to look at. All he said was, "Oh."

"How do you feel?" Al asked, desperate to change the subject and feeling like a coward doing it.

"Great," came the automatic response.

"Now, how do you really feel?"

Ed arched an eyebrow, another stab at humor that fell flat when it transformed into a pained wince. "You don't believe me?"

"Not even a little bit," he agreed, combing Ed's shaggy bangs back from his face. Ed needed a haircut. Maybe he should get the scissors . . .

Ed glared, weakly turning his head away. "Stop that." This time, Al's amusement was genuine. The only person that got a free pass to touch his hair was Winry, it seemed. "Where is everyone?"

Al knew he was dodging the question but didn't have the heart not to let him get away with it, at least for now. He pulled up Winry's chair and sat next to Ed, propping his elbows up on the bed. "Mostly here, at Winry's, but I haven't seen Roy in a while. I think he's at our house. Falman and Breda are heading back to Central to take care of some things but should be back in a day or two. I'm not sure what the train schedule is these days." And he hadn't been paying much attention when they were discussing their plans for the future. Al was too busy living one day at a time.

Ed looked thoughtful, his eyes sliding over to the pile of books and papers that Roy had graciously brought from their house at Al's request. Al had always been able to read his brother well, and he knew he was thinking carefully about something, considering his next words.

"Al, I want you to . . . do something for me," he murmured between breathes.

Al blinked, surprised. Ed wasn't one to preface. "What is it?"

"I want you . . . to stop all this research."

A cold stone dropped in the pit of Al's stomach, ice spreading in his veins.

He took a breath. "Brother—"

"Al," Ed cut him off, his golden eyes forceful despite the exhaustion ringing them. "It's time. We tried, and . . . that's the best we could do. I don't want to spend . . . the rest of my life watching you read." He reached out a quivering hand, and without thought Al latched on to it. "I want to spend it _with_ you. With Winry, my friends . . . maybe even with Mustang, if the drugs are right."

A hysterical laugh tore from Al's lips of its own accord, scaring him with its suddenness. It wasn't that funny. Nothing was funny, why was he laughing? "Ed, I can't—"

"No more research," he said, _demanded_.

Just like that, the laugh died, cold silence stretching between them.

Al didn't know he was crying until he tasted saltwater on his lips.

"Please," Al finally whispered. "Don't ask me to do this."

Ed gave a little shake of his head. "Alphonse. This is what I want. No more research, no more . . . playing doctor. . . Just . . . be my brother."

Al didn't have the strength to hold himself up. He sank forward, burying his head in his brother's thin chest. Ed stiffened for just a second before tentatively bringing a hand to rub weak circles on his back, like he had when they were little. He smelled like sick and blood and disinfectant, nothing like his big brother. It wasn't right.

Nothing was right.

"Do you remember when . . . Mom talked about the day you were born?" Ed asked softly, one hand moving to stroke his hair, just like Mom used to when he was upset.

Al sniffed and shook his head against Ed's sharp ribs, not trusting his voice.

He could hear the smile in Ed's voice. "When I saw you . . . I told Mom, 'you have me . . . this one is mine'."

A fresh wave of tears spilled from his eyes, soaking into the thin white sheets.

"Don't worry . . . I hated you after you started getting all the attention."

Al huffed a choking laugh that ended in a sob. "I do remember _that,"_ his voice trembled.

"Sure," Ed sighed, then coughed hard, Al's head bouncing roughly against his chest. "That's the part . . . you remember," he finally wheezed, voice like sandpaper.

Al didn't want to look up and see the blood dribbling from Ed's mouth, so he stayed where he was, listening to the rattling in his lungs and the quick thump of Ed's heart, proof of life.

"I don't know . . . what I did to deserve . . . a little brother like you," Ed whispered. "But it must have been . . . pretty good."

Al didn't try to stop the tears slipping from his eyes, falling freely. He took a shuddering breath, letting them pass.

"I'm sorry I . . . wasn't a better big brother."

"Shut up, Ed," Al mumbled, voice tight. "You're a great big brother." He turned his head, staring at the empty space where Ed's leg should have been. "You always have been."

Ed made a humming sound, that wasn't necessarily agreement, but he didn't argue. "Thanks, Al. I'm sorry . . . for this. I didn't want this . . . for you or for Winry."

The last thing Al needed was Ed to start apologizing with his misplaced guilt. Al was already crying as it was. "Ed, please," he said, voice thick. "Don't start that."

Ed thumped his ear lightly. "I will start . . . what I want," he rasped.

Al couldn't handle it anymore. He wasn't thrilled with Ed watching him cry, but he couldn't handle the way every sentence Ed whispered grew weaker and weaker. Al sat up and wiped his wet face, then picked up the glass mask from where it sat hissing gently on the pillow. He wanted to talk to Ed more than anything, but Ed needed the oxygen more than Al needed to talk. He looked his brother in the eye, noting the smear of red against Ed's chin, a harsh contrast to the bluish color his lips and eyelids had turned, and the fatigue seemed to be etched into his very soul.

He looked so tired.

But he still glared at the mask as if it had offended him deeply.

"Al—" he whined. It might have been comical if it hadn't ended in a chocking cough.

Al let him finish, his lips looking even bluer after he was done, then Al wiped away the blood and slipped the mask over his mouth and nose. Ed didn't fight it, accepting it with only an unhappy grunt.

Ed turned his glare to the ceiling and said something into the glass.

"What?"

Ed turned back to Al, then lifted a shaky hand to pull the mask away from his mouth a fraction. "This thing sucks," he repeated, resituating it on his face and lying back like the movement had exhausted him.

Al gave his brother a half smile. "But does it feel better?"

Ed just rolled his eyes in response.

Answer enough.

Al's smile was a bit stronger this time, feeling more genuine on his lips. Even as he watched, Ed's eyes slipped shut a few seconds, then opened.

"Sleep, Brother," Al said. Ed turned his tired eyes to Al, holding his gaze for a beat, then letting his eyes slide shut once more. It didn't take long for his breathing to even out into sleep.

Exhaustion tugged at Al's mind like an old friend, reminding him that he hadn't slept much in a while. He glanced at his research, stifling the urge to reach for his journal.

It's all Ed had asked for.

He was done.

Al blinked back another wave of tears and leaned forward, pillowing his head in his arms on the hard mattress next to Ed, despair crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe. Ed's cold hand touched his, and Al had no idea if it was conscious or not but wrapped his fingers around Ed's anyway.

No more research. No more playing doctor.

Now, until it was over, Al would just be his brother.

That's all he'd ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. The good times were fun while they lasted, huh?
> 
> It's getting depressing in here :'D
> 
> So my parents were like, you need a puzzle because hobbies are important. And I promptly explained how puzzles were really nice pictures that someone cuts up, and then sells you on the idea that your life will not be complete until the picture is, and puzzles are in fact a scam. But they give me this puzzle anyway, so it sits on the table, I throw a few pieces together just so I can tell them, "Yes, I've worked on the puzzle, much fun, wohoo." Then I go on my way to do laundry.
> 
> But every time I walk by, it calls me. I have to keep putting pieces together. It's like some sort of compulsion, a psychological trick that these puzzle masterminds employ because they know our hearts will not be satisfied until it is assembled, every piece in place, every cloud complete, every sunset set.
> 
> And forty-eight hours later, I've got this thing finished, AND THERE IS A PIECE MISSING.
> 
> What MONSTER leaves out ONE PIECE?!
> 
> It. Is. Infuriating.
> 
> So, back to my original point: puzzles are a scam.
> 
> Thank you for coming to me TED talk. I'm not sure when, exactly, I started treating the ends of my chapters as inane little journal entries, but here we are xD
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! If you have the time, please drop a comment, and I'll see you next time c:
> 
> God Bless,  
> -RainFlame


	13. Chapter Thirteen

The house was empty, but felt desolate. If Roy stopped to contemplate it too long, he would almost say that it had a hollowed-out feeling, like the bottom of a well, or the parlor of a funeral home.

So Roy didn't stop to contemplate it.

Still, it was where Roy had spent most of his time, with everyone down the road at the Rockbell's. As much as he wanted to be with Edward, Winry, and Alphonse, with Riza and his team, this was a required sacrifice. The silence, the stillness, was necessary for what he was preparing to do, both to ready his plans and himself.

Roy hadn't slept for two days, driven by his research and his preparation, but when he heard the news that Ed had somehow, impossibly, roused from his coma sometime early that morning, he had rushed to see for himself. Upon his arrival, he found Ed once more asleep, but not unconscious, only exhausted from blood loss and trauma.

Roy's relief had been enough to allow him a nap on the Elric's sofa, but he'd awoken with a headache and a quiet foreboding gnawing at his stomach, driving him back to Ed's loft and the planning and research that had consumed him the past weeks as he waited for Marcoh's arrival.

The knock on the door pulled Roy from his studies.

He shut Ed's journal and slid it into the older Elric's desk, hiding it carefully under the wadded up balls of paper before grabbing his own journal and climbing as quickly as was safe down from Ed's loft. There was another knock before Roy managed to make it to the door.

It was Marcoh and it was about time.

The older man was dressed in an unassuming white shirt under a brown jacket with matching slacks, a wide brimmed hat shielding the delicate skin of his scarred face from the afternoon sun. He held a small suitcase in one large hand and a medical bag in the other. "Brigadier General Mustang," he greeted in his harsh, graveled voice.

"Doctor," Roy said, opening the door wider to allow him in.

"I spoke to Riza," Marcoh said after entering, setting his bags down in the entryway and removing his hat, allowing for a full view of his disfigured face. The man's scars had always made Roy a bit uncomfortable, the sagging, waxy flesh reminding him too much of the wounds he'd inflicted in Ishval. "Did she give you my response?"

Roy forcibly pushed the intrusive memories away. He had a job to do. "She did," he said, gesturing for the older man to sit on one of the couches. Marcoh did, and Roy stepped into the kitchen to grab a pair of glasses, filling them in the sink and returning to the living room. He handed one to the doctor, sipping from his own glass as he sat in the Ed's armchair.

"I'm not sure why I'm here, then," Marcoh said after a silence, studying Roy with his dark eyes. "If Riza told you that there is nothing left of the Stone, I'm afraid I have no miracles to perform."

Roy had been immeasurably disappointed when Riza had told him. He'd been willing to use the Stone on Ed, even without his permission if necessary, but with no Stone his options had been severely limited.

There was only one way Roy could think of to save Ed now, and Ed probably wasn't going to like it much more.

"I need two things from you, Tim," Roy began, placing his glass on the table beside him and grabbing the file he'd left there. "First, I need a second opinion on Ed's diagnosis." He locked eyes with the older man as he handed the file to him, every scrap of data he'd been able to collect on Ed's condition contained within.

Marcoh accepted it, regarding Roy uncertainly. "And second?"

"And second," Roy leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers in front of his chin, "I need your perspective on the restoration of Ishval."

XxXxX

Ed had exactly one more goal to accomplish while he was still breathing; he was going to make it to that stupid Summer Festival with Winry.

In order to do that though, he had to be off the oxygen. The enormous tanks were not the most portable things in the world—especially on dirt roads—and besides that he didn't want to draw more attention to himself than he already would.

Anytime he was left alone, he removed the annoying glass mask from his face. He wasn't sure if it would help strengthen his lungs, but if he didn't move too much, or speak for that matter, he could leave it off for almost ten minutes before his headache reached an unbearable level. When he was feeling stronger, he tossed the mask and let it dangle over the side of his bed, and when he wasn't, he settled for letting it hang off of his chin.

Of course, when anybody caught him like that, he got an earful.

"Why are you like this?" Winry demanded, picking up the affronting object for him to see.

"Guess it . . . fell?" he tried.

"For the fourth time today?"

"Gravity is a pain."

She shook her head. "You are impossible." There wasn't any fire in her retort as she left the mask on the mattress beside him, then moved down. She wrapped her fingers in the extra blankets she'd brought him, pulling back the covers to expose his left leg.

Or rather, what was left of it.

With a thoughtful frown, she went over to the sink and began to wash, scrubbing up to her elbows before donning a clean pair of rubber surgical gloves.

"Again?" Ed asked, trying not to whine and knowing he didn't succeed.

She looked sympathetic as she took her place down by his stump. "I've got to make sure the infection is gone. I'm sorry, I know it hurts."

He sighed, coughed, then tilted his head back in a "let's get it over with" gesture.

Her cool fingers carefully began unwrapping the bandages from the site of his amputation. The painkillers she was keeping him on were decent—his side only throbbed instead of screamed, and his body only ached instead of burned—but they were far from perfect. The open wound stung enough, and when she put pressure on the place of the infection, he gritted his teeth, digging his fingers into the blankets with desperate ferocity and trying hard not to writhe as his newly-exposed nerves were set ablaze.

He didn't want to think about how it would feel without painkillers.

His lungs spasmed from being forced still for so long and he coughed. The usual fiery sensation was pleasantly diminished, but just because he couldn't feel the pain as much didn't mean that damage wasn't being done. He raised the bloodied corner of the sheets in a weary hand to try to staunch the flow, pulling it back slick with fresh blood.

"I'm sorry," she said again, voice tight. "Almost done." There was a cold, uncomfortable sensation as she smeared something on the open wound, and though it still stung, Ed almost passed out in relief when she started wrapping gauze around it. "There," she said, securing the wrap. "I think it's clearing up. The antibiotics seem to be working."

One less thing to kill him, then. Ed didn't say that though. "Thanks, Win," he wheezed.

Why didn't it feel like he could breathe when he was practically panting?

Winry took off the gloves, travelling up to the head of the bed. She ran her fingers through his sweat-slicked hair, brushing his long bangs back from his forehead. He leaned into the touch, her cool hand soothing against his feverish skin. "Think we can get you out of bed for a bit? It's been a few days since you've been up longer than a few minutes."

On the one hand, Ed desperately wanted to be anywhere but in bed. He wanted to go back to his house, sit on his back porch and read, or watch the sun move across the sky. He wanted to play chess with Falman, argue alchemy with Mustang, or reminisce with Al. He wanted to sit with Winry.

On the other hand, getting up it sounded painful.

"Sure," he whispered.

Winry smiled at him, but her eyes were sad. He hated that.

He tried to help her help himself sit up, but it was like a two-year old helping their parent in the kitchen: completely useless. He just didn't have the strength for it anymore. She placed a therapy belt around his waist and used it and a strong hand under his arm to help move him into his wheelchair. She didn't seem strained by the effort, but maybe that was because without the automail limb Ed didn't weigh much anymore.

Despite him contributing nothing, the movement had exhausted him and left him gasping, a wave of dizziness setting the room spinning even as his headache flared with renewed vigor. He felt the beginnings of a cough stir in his lungs, but managed to somehow, miraculously, quell it before it manifested.

While he tried to force his vision to still, Winry moved his IVs to a rolling tree, strapping the large oxygen tank to a platform beneath that Al had transmuted at some point. Without asking permission, she slid the mask over his nose and mouth. He must have given her a dirty look because she shook her head. "Your lips are turning blue, Ed. You need it."

He couldn't deny that breathing in the stuff, as drying as it was, felt good. His lungs didn't feel as tight somehow, and it was like a fog was lifting from his brain, allowing him to think more clearly, and the room even stopped it's furious tilting after a few moments.

But he still hated how it felt more like a muzzle than a life-giving device.

He watched her change the sheets from his bed, putting the bloodied ones off to the side and adding fresh white linens. She was beautiful like this, the way she moved, confident in what she was doing. Here, in one of the Rockbell's two recovery rooms, he was just another patient. She knew what to do with automail patients. He hoped that made it easier on her, somehow.

She turned back around after fluffing the pillows. "Would you like to go to the living room? I think almost everybody is in there, except Al and Roy."

At his arched eyebrow, she continued.

"Al's upstairs in your old room. I told him to get some sleep. I think Roy's at your house. I haven't seen him very much since you got here."

The thought of Mustang alone in their house bothered Ed for some reason. What could he possibly be doing over there by himself? He didn't like the idea of him rifling through his alchemy research.

He brought a quivering hand up to his face, pulling the mask down enough to be heard. It was morning, and mornings were usually good for him. He wanted to capitalize on it as much as possible. "Can we go outside?"

Ed saw her pause, probably trying to come up with a good reason to deny him the trip but coming up short. Finally, she sighed. "Alright. Let's get you bundled up."

About ten minutes later and three blankets heavier, Winry rolled Ed out onto her front deck. At his bidding, she helped him out of the chair and onto the bench in the shade by the door. She sat beside him, and it wasn't completely unintentional that he sagged against her; it was either that or lean the other way, and why would he pass this opportunity up?

The spring day was pleasant again, the grass green and the sky blue. Hugh puffy clouds were gathering in the distance, birds chirped and sang, and though the cool breeze threatened to chill him, the outdoors was far preferable to being stuck inside, and the outdoors with Winry—well, what could be better?

Gently, her hand found his, taking it into her lap. She traced his scarred palm under her calloused fingers. "I found out something interesting today," she began.

By the tone of her voice, Ed knew to be wary. He pulled the mask down to his chin. "Is this a trap?"

Her lip quirked. "Maybe."

He sighed. "Do tell."

"Did you know that Breda is ordained?"

He stiffened, a surprised cough tearing from his lungs. "Winry," he finally managed to croak, wiping blood from his mouth with the edge of a blanket. "We talked about this—"

"I told you I wasn't through," she said, blue eyes shining stubbornly.

Even now? Now that Ed was a husk of himself, just sallow skin stretched over weak bones? He was even worse off than he was when they'd last had this conversation. "What could you possibly see in me that . . . would make you think . . . this was a good idea?" he breathed.

"The only reason I'm not hitting you with my wrench is because I'd have to go get it," she growled.

"Winry," he protested. "Look at me."

"I am. I'm looking at the biggest idiot in Amestris." Were those . . . tears in her eyes?!

"Hey, don't cry!" he hated, _hated_ watching her cry like that.

It wasn't so long ago that he was walking up the very path they sat in front of, Al at his side, returning from a journey that had taken years but had finally brought them home, with Al in his original body. Winry had cried that day too, but for the first time, Ed didn't mind her tears.

Now, though, he minded very much.

"I will cry if I want to!" she snapped, the tears finally spilling over to stream down her face. "I want the truth, Ed. Do you not want to marry me for my sake, or is it for yours?"

"The answer is both," Ed growled, careful to keep his tone low. He didn't want to choke. "I'm not going to be here . . . very long, Winry. Why would you . . . want to marry someone that's about to kick the bucket?"

She kept scowling and Ed was starting to wonder if maybe he should lean on the other side so it might be less tempting for her to hit him. "It's a little late to ask me to stop loving you, Ed."

He wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or fever that had his cheeks flushing. Probably the fever. "I don't want to hurt you . . . more than necessary."

Despite her denial, he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd produced a hidden wrench from under the bench and bludgeoned him with it.

He was very surprised when she leaned over and kissed him.

The gesture stole his breath in a way his illness never could, the taste of her—of citrus and summer—soft and warm under his lips as she moved against him. He pulled back just a bit, self-conscious that he probably tasted like sick and blood, but she followed him, one hand sliding behind his head to bury her fingers in his hair while the other still held his hand. He allowed his own free hand to wrap around her waist, pulling her closer with the little strength he had.

Was he seeing stars because of Winry, or from the lack of oxygen?

Hard to say.

The headache returned, but he didn't really mind all that much. As if sensing this, Winry pulled away, and he ached at the loss of her. Ed opened his eyes, her half-lidded blue ones staring back at him. She didn't say anything and neither did he as he gasped for air, his head pounding and his vision going a bit fuzzy at the edges. She didn't say anything still as she picked up the mask from where it rested on his chest, repositioning it over his mouth. Sweet oxygen started working its magic, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers while he breathed.

"I love you, Ed," she whispered.

"I love you, too," he said, voice muffled, but he knew she understood him.

There was no one in this world he loved like he loved Winry. He wished he could be around to give her the life she deserved, the family she deserved. And maybe she would have it someday.

It just wouldn't be with him.

It surprised him when moisture sprang into his eyes, and he blinked it away hard. He couldn't afford to cry right now. That wasn't fair to Winry.

Winry closed her eyes. "You asked me a long time ago if I'd marry you."

And he regretted doing that to her, of getting her hopes up only to tear them down. He opened his mouth to respond, but then remembered the mask would prevent any intelligible reply. He lifted a shaky hand to pull it off, but she intercepted, twining her fingers through his. "I know, Ed," she said, but he wondered if she really did. "I know you think it's a bad idea.

"But it's my life. You're my best friend, and my idiot fiancé, and I want the chance to call you my husband. If you don't want to marry me for your own sake, then I can live with that." Her voice wavered, but she closed her eyes again. Silvery streams painted the sides of her face, catching in the morning sun. "But if it's for me, Ed, I want this. I want _you_ , even if it's for months, or weeks, or days. I've already given you eighty percent. I want to give you the whole hundred."

Ed's heart clenched in his chest, because he loved her, and he knew she was right. He couldn't deny her what he'd promised.

She knew all the facts now. Al had told her everything. She knew what had happened to him, what he had done, what his prognosis was, and she still wanted this. She was not making an uninformed decision, and he respected her too much to assume she hadn't considered this from every angle.

He passed a thumb over her left hand, catching against the small silver ring.

As much as she wanted this, he wanted it more.

He slipped the ring from her finger. She looked up at him in alarm.

This time, she let him pull the mask down. "Winry," he began, his voice weak, but his conviction strong. "A few months ago, I asked you to marry me. And then I was an idiot for a while. But . . . you know me. You know who I am and what's going on and . . . if you still want me . . ."

His panting increased as his oxygen levels dropped from the effort, but nothing short of an attack was going to stop him now. He coughed into his blanket, wiped away the blood, and continued.

"Winry, I love you. I love you . . . more than anything . . . and I have for a long time. Will you give me . . . another chance to do it right?"

He held the ring in between them, his hand shaking hard, making sunlight glint off of the shiny metal.

"Will you marry me?"

Her lips trembled into a smile. She looked up at him with her glistening eyes, tears dripping down her face, from the tip of her nose, and she was beautiful.

"Yes," she breathed, and kissed him again. She didn't hold on as long this time, and honestly Ed probably would have passed out if she had, be it from oxygen loss or euphoria. He gathered her close, her head pressing into his bony shoulder. He buried his hand in her hair, grasping weakly just to keep it there, and let her cry into his shirt.

And he'd be lying if he said he didn't let a few tears slip too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a touch of fluff to make up for all the trauma xD 
> 
> I know I've been hinting that I was going to update this on Tumblr for the past, like, three weeks. Well, it finally happened :'D You ever just . . . forget how to write? Like, grammar rules don't make any sense anymore? Can't spell? Can't sentence? T'was I for the past three-ish weeks. I'm still not over it, so if this chapter looks like I lost the ability to language, it was because I did. 
> 
> Remember the cabbages I was telling you guys about in my garden? The cabbage worms got them, and all I could think of was the cabbage guy from ATLA. Like, those little buggers wiped them out in less than a week. We had a glorious battle, but I must concede defeat. They won. 
> 
> Why is this important? It's not.
> 
> *sails away*
> 
> ANYWAYS, i hope you have a fantastic evening! Please drop a review if you have the time, and I'll see you next chapter :)
> 
> God Bless,  
> -RainFlame


	14. Chapter 14

Roy knew something was different when he walked up to the Rockbell home later that afternoon to find Ed dozing on the bench out front and no one else in sight. He couldn't quite explain it except that something just struck him as being odd, like the house had a changed energy about it, and though he looked around to find an obvious source, nothing seemed to be out of place on the outside. The front door was ajar, so at least someone was probably checking on Ed frequently.

He thought about going inside, grabbing Riza and retreating back to the Elric house as he had intended. There was a lot to discuss, plans to put into motion, but the sight of Ed gave Roy pause.

He was slumped against the arm of the bench, head curled forward, long disheveled hair hanging over his eyes and hanging limp off of his slumped shoulders. The glass mask was sealed against his face, hissing quietly amid the afternoon breeze, and he had enough blankets on to make Roy sweat at the thought. Tubes snaked underneath and around him, all tying back a tree with several bags dangling from it and a tank of oxygen strapped at the base. He looked so tired, tired in a way that made Roy's soul hurt, his thin chest rising and falling just a bit too fast, the skin stretched over his frame just a bit too thin. His chin was stained red, and so were the edges of the blankets where he had wiped his mouth, and everything in Roy wanted nothing more than to give everything for the child that had already given everything.

There was nothing fair about what had happened to Ed. The child—no, he was a man now, Roy reminded himself—had given everything to save his family, his friends, and even the people of his country. He had all but given his life, and now his life was being demanded of him too.

It wasn't fair, and if Roy stopped to think about it instead of what he was doing, the grief might swallow him.

Ed had grown past being just a subordinate, and even past being some sort of adoptive son, though that strange dynamic had dominated a good part of their relationship. He had grown into a friend, like every parent hopes their child will become when they reach adulthood. An ill-tempered, obstinate, _abrasive_ , but loyal friend. Roy couldn't have been prouder.

Roy approached, steps creaking under his boots, absorbing in the sight of him, relishing the way he just breathed, the way he was still alive. He brushed the boy's hair from his eyes, watching the reassuring puffs of air fogging against the glass of the mask.

Blond eyebrows twitched together, then his eyes cracked open, golden irises peering up at him with fuzzy recognition. He mumbled something against the glass, but Roy couldn't make it out.

Roy smirked down at him. "Good morning, short stuff."

Roy could clearly make out a groan this time around a wet cough, and maybe some sort of derogatory name, but he couldn't be sure. Ed sat up slowly, his arms quivering underneath him as he tried to leverage himself into a better position. Roy placed a hand under his arm to help and earned himself an annoyed glare, but he didn't take it back.

"Why are you out here by yourself?" he asked, another pointed look at the slightly opened door.

Ed lifted a hand to pull down his mask. Roy saw it quiver but chose not to say anything. "Winry just left, I think," he rasped. "I guess I kind of fell asleep."

"Kind of," Roy agreed, taking the vacant seat next to him.

Ed offered him another irritated glance, then turned his gaze back to the Resembool countryside. "Guess your timing is pretty good . . . There's something I need to ask you," he began, fiddling with his IV line, rolling it between his fingers nervously. "I haven't even asked Al yet. . . he's still asleep, and I probably should tell him first, but he's . . . who knows when he'll be out here . . ."

There was something decidedly rambling about Ed's words and Roy's curiosity was thoroughly piqued. "Spit it out before you choke on it."

Instead of the glare Roy thought would come his way, Ed kept his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon. "I asked Winry to marry me."

Roy arched an eyebrow. This wasn't news. "I know that."

"Again."

Oh.

That _was_ news.

"Congratulations," he said, thumping Ed lightly on the shoulder. "Again."

Ed gave him a sheepish look. "You don't . . . think it's a bad idea?"

The hesitance in his voice was something novel for Edward Elric, and it gave Roy pause.

It was really none of his business; who was Roy to give someone advice on pursuing the love of their life, after all? But Ed rarely asked Roy's opinion on anything, much less anything of importance.

Or maybe in hindsight, those were the only times Ed had ever asked his opinion.

Roy pressed his lips together and leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees. "Ed, I think if you want to get married, you should get married."

"Even if I'm dying?"

Roy hoped he didn't visibly flinch. "None of us is guaranteed a set amount of time on this earth, Ed. There are plenty of people that are miraculously healed, and there are plenty of people that get hit by milk trucks. We don't know what tomorrow holds for us, we've just got now. So get married."

Ed seemed to visibly relax, his jaw loosening, shoulders sagging, like a heavy weight had been taken from them. He thought a moment before nodding. "Thanks, Mustang."

Roy smiled. "Any time."

A warm silence passed between them, and Roy tried to burn it into his mind; the way Ed looked, the way the light played through the trees and the shadows danced, the brilliant blue of the sky.

"I've . . . gotta ask you something else."

"Shoot."

"Will you . . . I mean, I don't exactly have a lot of family, and . . . we're getting married Thursday . . . you know, when Falman and . . . Breda get back . . . It's short notice and all, but . . ." The tips of his ears were a faint pink color, and just to see Ed blushing with the amount of blood loss he'd sustained was reassuring. "I can't . . ." He made a distressed sound in the back of his throat. "Al's gonna . . . he's my best man, of course, but . . . could you . . . Would you be my groomsman?"

Roy blinked.

Then he smiled, the cold cavity in his chest carved from weeks of strain and worry and fear filling with just a bit of warmth.

If anyone had told him even five years ago that he would not only be invited to the Fullmetal Alchemist's wedding, but would actually be asked to have a part in it, he would have asked what the man was drinking and have ordered the same.

Things certainly had a way of changing.

"I would be honored."

Ed's blush reddened slightly, but a hesitant smile pulled at his lips. "Thanks. . . I'm not good at this stuff, and . . . I know I . . . haven't ever . . . been easy to . . . get along with, but . . . I appreciate . . . ah," Ed gasped, pulling his mask up to take a few deep breathes, looking both embarrassed and frustrated, eyes creased with pain. Roy waited patiently until he pulled it down and continued. "I never told you how much . . . I appreciate what you've done. For me and Al."

Roy hated the way he said it. It sounded a lot more like last words than a "thanks for being my groomsman"; like something Ed wanted to get off of his chest before he couldn't.

Roy placed a hand on Ed's shoulder, the blond stiffening in response, locking uncertain eyes with Roy. "Ed. It's been my honor and my privilege, and it will continue to be."

That same small smile tugged at the corners of Ed's lips before his eyes went watery and the smile twisted into a tight grimace. He leaned to the side and coughed, the sound both weak and harsh. He kept hacking, hands fumbling for the mask around his neck in a vain attempt to suck in some oxygen, but it kept slipping from his shaking fingers.

Roy leaned over, snatching the mask in a strong grip and pressing it to Ed's face as he choked and gasped, blood splattering against the glass. One of Ed's hands grasped at his side, while the other scrabbled weakly against Roy's, but Roy didn't let go. Roy only managed to barely pull it aside in time for Ed to heave up bloody bile over the side of the bench.

After a few more dry heaves that produced nothing more than a bit of blood, he collapsed against the arm of the bench, weak and panting. His hand half-heartedly bumped against the mask, guiding it to his face.

All in all, this was a much more minor attack than his last one.

Roy stared hard as he willed his pounding heart to ease, looking for what Ed was hiding. He reached over, brushing the mask aside so he could wipe the gory remains away from the inside of the glass and Ed's mouth with the edge of a blue blanket. It was already ruined, anyway. Ed made a weak groan of protest, but Roy was already adept at ignoring him. "You said Al's been asleep. Have you had an alkahestry treatment today?"

Ed choked before he got a word out. "It's—"

"Say it's fine and I'll knock you off this bench," Roy promised, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing the piece of cloth Al had given him, an alkahestry circle painted across it in thick black strokes. He unfurled it with a flick of his wrist. "Shirt up."

Ed looked close to arguing, but then he winced and his breath hitched, his body caving to his injured side, and the way he frowned told Roy he'd thought the better of it. He kept his head on the arm of the bench, but pushed the blankets down, hesitantly lifting his shirt enough for Roy to press the circle against the peaks and valleys of his gaunt ribs and his concaved stomach. Ed tried to keep it covered with a thin hand, but Roy could see the white gauze taped to his side bright with fresh blood.

He didn't say anything, though he wanted to. Instead, he activated the circle with a force of will, the lines glowing gently as Ed's insides once more knit together, just a bit looser than before, always looser and never as perfect as it once was before his body ripped itself apart again.

One step forward, two steps back.

Ed's breathing seemed to ease, the rigidity of his spine relaxing just a bit. Roy leaned over and secured the mask to Ed's face once more. He blinked at Roy tiredly, but with that trace of irritation that Roy needed to know his fight wasn't completely gone yet. Roy still had a little more time.

Roy offered him a tight smile that he hoped didn't come off as a grimace, tucking the circle away in his pocket. "If you're quite finished, why don't we get you inside? I'm sure everyone will be excited to hear the wedding is on."

Ed's lip quirked and held this time. He started to say something in the mask, but Roy couldn't make it out and Ed seemed to realize it. "I'll take that as a yes," Roy interpreted, rising and helping Ed move into his chair.

He was so light.

Disgustingly light. Roy could have sworn he weighed more just two days ago.

Roy made sure he was resting comfortably, tucking the blankets around his thin frame before rolling him inside where the rest of the team waited to share the good news.

After all, any news that wasn't downright awful was welcomed at this point.

XxXxX

Alphonse was torn between wanting to hide in their childhood room forever and wanting to be at Ed's side for every waking minute. A new day meant new challenges and he wasn't sure if he was quite ready to face them.

He stared up at the familiar ceiling, and if he tried hard enough, he could almost imagine that he was eight again, he and Ed spending the night over at the Rockbell's because he didn't want to feel so alone in their empty house after their mom passed away. Ed had always obliged him when he got like that. Or he could almost imagine that he was still in the suit of armor and they came home for repairs, and Ed was snoring softly in the bed next to his, tormented and missing a limb or two, but alive and reasonably healthy.

He wasn't ready to live in a world without his big brother in it, and each day brought him closer to it.

And he still hadn't quite shaken the numbness from last night.

Summoning more energy than it should reasonably take, Al hoisted himself up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and planting his bare feet into the cool floorboards. He took a moment to just breathe, letting the air pool in his lungs before expelling it through his nose. He tried to rub the slow ache behind his eyes away with a fist, but it didn't work.

With a tired groan he stood up, made his bed, then passed Ed's untouched one on the way to the bathroom. Ed had only slept there a couple of weeks when they returned to Resembool, before they got their own place so he could better hide his illness from Winry.

The angle of the sunlight filtering through the window told him it was probably around noon. He hadn't slept this late since he was recovering from his time on the other side of the Gate, but Winry had sent him upstairs and told him not to come back down until he looked human. He caught the reflection of his bloodshot eyes in the mirror and decided that almost-human would have to do.

He showered quickly, combed his hair into some semblance of decency, then examined the pale scruff around his jawline. After searching in vain for a razor, he decided one more day of stubble wouldn't hurt.

Muted voices bubbled from downstairs as he walked down the hall. Everyone must have still been there, though he'd anticipated some would have wondered back down to the Elric house by now. When he descended the stairs, the mood wasn't exactly what he had been expecting.

It was almost . . . light?

Winry, Riza, and Fuery were in the kitchen making something—a batter of some sort, maybe bread? Havoc sat at the kitchen table, thumbing through a cookbook. Winry laughed at something Fuery said as the younger man whisked a couple of eggs. Everyone looked up when he entered, eyes glinting.

Al was immediately wary.

"Hey, Al," Winry greeted, her tone warm, almost enough to cover for the ache in her eyes.

Almost.

"Hey," he said. "What's . . . uh, what's going on?"

She dried her hands off on her apron before she removed it, tossing it over an empty kitchen chair. "Come on, Ed and I have something we need to tell you," she said, taking his hand.

Oh.

He felt a small smile tug at the corners of his lips but didn't voice his suspicions. Instead, he let her lead him to the patient recovery rooms, the first door on the right past the operating theater.

Ed was sitting in his wheelchair, his long hair down and slightly damp, like he'd just had a shower. Roy was behind him, carefully combing the dull gold while Ed tried to button his shirt. His hands shook, and he reached up to tear the mask away in frustration to get a better view.

They both looked up as Al and Winry entered, Ed's mouth pulling into a tight, worried line while Roy just looked smug.

"Hey, Alphonse," Roy said, picking up a pair of shears.

Al blinked, then looked at Ed. "Are you getting a haircut?"

Ed scowled. "He bullied me into it."

Al looked at Roy. "You can cut hair?"

"I have more sisters than I know what to do with, so of course I can cut hair, but this—" Roy made a gesture over Ed's head "—is more like manicuring a sheepdog."

"If you were worth the trouble . . . I'd kill you," Ed promised irritably as Roy smirked and snipped off a good four inches from the back, still leaving it longer than he'd worn it before he got so sick, but it did somehow make him look healthier for it.

After Al got over the shock of it all, he found it sort of hilarious that Ed even let the man touch his hair, let alone cut it. Still, for his brother's dignity, he tried to stifle a smile. It had been a lot easier as a suit of armor. "How did you do it?"

Apparently Roy knew exactly what he was talking about. "I just reminded him that Miss Rockbell preferred it a bit shorter."

"Which was . . . a low blow."

"He's right, though," Winry said with a grin.

Ed blushed just a bit and looked away. "Yeah, yeah."

"So," Al began after a moment of enjoying Ed's discomfort. "I was told you guys had an announcement for me?"

There Ed went again with that weird, uncomfortable expression he'd given Al when he first walked in. Roy was back to his smirking as he put his shears down. "I'll be back shortly," he said, brushing a few damp locks of hair from his shirt as he dismissed himself from the room, shutting the door behind him.

Al stared at Ed.

Ed stared at Al.

Al arched an eyebrow and waited.

"Okay, you two," Winry sighed, drawing closer to Ed, taking his hand and turning so they both faced Al. Ed practically squirmed but intertwined his fingers through hers and glanced self-consciously between Al and the floor.

"Tell him!" Winry pressed.

Ed fidgeted. "Um—"

Al crossed his arms and grinned. "So, who proposed to whom?"

Winry's eyebrows shot up. "You knew?!"

Ed relaxed, a smirk taking his lips. "And here we were . . . trying to be discrete." He coughed into a handkerchief, but the smirk returned full force.

Al imagined he probably looked about as impressed as he felt. "For what, an hour?"

"Two," Winry sniffed primly.

"Will you . . ." Ed began, leaning a bit against Winry, like being upright in and of itself was exhausting. "Will you be my . . . best man?"

"Did you forget what I said last time?" Al asked with a smile.

"Just making sure," Ed said, but the edge had worn off of his smirk, leaving a smile that was a lot more genuine in its wake.

"I'm just hurt," Al said, putting a hand over his heart and stifling another grin, "that you told everyone else before me."

"You slept forever," Winry pointed out.

"And I told you . . . first last time," Ed wheezed. "You're lucky . . . you got over two. . . days' notice."

Without any sort of preamble, Al stepped forward, crouching down to his brother's eyelevel. Ed looked at him, golden eyes burning as he panted, but there was a peace there, an acceptance. Alphonse wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but he gently took Ed's mask and slipped it over his face. "Thanks for asking again, Brother."

Ed smiled through a wince, reaching out a frail hand to ruffle Al's hair in response, weak as moths' wings.

Later that day as everyone converged in the kitchen trying out frosting recipes and making plans and laughing, Al noticed Riza and Roy slipping out the front door, heading up the dirt road back toward the Elric house. He didn't think much of it; both of them were important people with important jobs they were putting on hold. Surely they had a lot of work to try to catch up on.

Sometime after midnight, as Al was leaving Ed's room to grab a drink of water, he saw Riza come back through the front door. Her eyes were red and swollen and Roy was nowhere in sight. Al opened his mouth to ask about it but before he could, he heard the familiar sounds of Ed retching. He promptly forgot about both his water and Riza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Two fluffy-ish chapters in a row? Who'd have thought? xD I still can't sentence, but ya know, it's you poor guys that have to deal with it ;)
> 
> So, I just started a load of laundry and shut my laundry room door. Ten minutes later as I'm responding to reviews from the last chapter, I smell smoke. Open my laundry room door and BOOM. Filled with smoke. Like, the washing machine was on fire. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?! Like the dryer, I could see that, but the washer?!
> 
> All is well, though. I yanked the plug out of the wall in a fit of panic and the fire died.
> 
> And now to find a repairman. 
> 
> And to find the years of life that were scared out of me. 
> 
> Anyways, please drop a comment if you have the time, and I'll catch you next chapter c:
> 
> God Bless,  
> -RainFlame

**Author's Note:**

> (I'm importing this from my ff.net account, notes and all, so some stuff is out of date, but alas, I am too lazy to edit lol).
> 
> "Rain, don't you have another fic you're supposed to be working on?" -Why, yes. Yes, I do.
> 
> "Okay then, are you, like, planning on updating that any time soon?" -Mhmm.
> 
> "I'm talking about in the next week or so, woman. Not that sporadic insanity you call an update 'schedule.'" -I never claimed to have a schedule. Joke's on you. xD
> 
> "Why couldn't you finish one before you started this?!" -Because that would be responsible, and I am anything but.
> 
> "You're hopeless." -That's not true, because I HOPE THAT I CAN ACTUALLY SLEEP IN TOMORROW PAST 9:00 AM, HOLY MOSES, IS THIS SUMMER BREAK OR ISN'T IT?!
> 
> In all seriousness, I think I need a nap. Or just more sleep in general. Because I just had that conversation with myself xD
> 
> So, yes, "Dead on Arrival" will be updated soon-ish. Just hit some writers block with it, because I know where I want to go, but I wrote something that wasn't in the outline, wanted to keep it, and now I have to reconfigure some stuff :'D If I'm not careful, I'm going to make myself sound organized . . . or insane.
> 
> This little fic is inspired by some wonderful people I met in a chat. They were discussing angst and I couldn't write anything angst-less after that xD So shout-out to you lovelies for the inspiration ;)
> 
> This will be one huge excuse for angst, and I'm going to kind of be sort of unstructured with this one. I might not even type up an outline at all, just to see where it goes. Wish me luck with that xD
> 
> Now that I've typed the longest author's note ever, I shall bid you good day c: If you have time, please leave a review, and I'll see you next time!
> 
> God Bless,
> 
> -RainFlame


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